


Submarine

by orphan_account



Series: the ocean is six miles deep [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Brief Discussions of Mental Illnesses, Coming of Age, Implied Oikawa Tooru/Akaashi Keiji, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Implied/Referenced Underage Smoking, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Futakuchi Kenji/Tsukishima Akiteru, Minor Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Recreational Drug Use, References to Submarine (2010)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 13:32:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5930278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You look like an alien."</p><p>Hajime told Tooru that when he met him, all three times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Submarine

**Author's Note:**

> just so you know-- they do smoke and drink, but they're around 16 to 18. in my country that's legal, so i did not place it under archive warnings, but just to be sure with the americans, i did tag it as implied underage smoking and drinking. no real harm comes to any of these children-- all is well.
> 
> this takes place in tokyo so hajime and tooru don't go to seijou
> 
> EDIT 25.04.2016: improved formatting, fixed some grammar & capitalisation.

**__** **ACT I**

The first time Hajime met Tooru was on the train. It was in the evening sun, warm colours and shades of red splashed the interior as the train screech and ached, twisting out of the city and into the suburbs of Tokyo. He was eleven. Tooru was twelve.

He looked older, Hajime thought, yet younger, too; he was lean and skinny, yet he had these huge brown eyes, dark yet shining, reflecting the sunlight. They seemed pure, innocent, even.

Hajime’s mother had taken him shopping, that day. They had just moved here, after all, his father had a new job, and his mother had dragged him into town. She said he’d need to impress his new schoolmates. Hajime had no real interest in shoes, or anything, really. He’d chosen the plainest, cheapest pair just to please her.

Hajime slouched against his seat, his mother talking to his aunt on the phone, quietly, in a hushed tone.

“I mean, I’m hoping he’ll fit in. He’s a nice kid, isn’t he?” he heard her say.

Hajime turned his head.

The boy stared at him, with those stupid, large eyes.

Hajime frowned.

“You look like an alien,” he said, “You’ve got a weird look.”

He jutted his chin towards him.

“Hajime!” his mother hissed. The boy merely bit his lips, and adjusted the bag on his shoulder. His feet were shuffling, he was fidgeting, drawing a nonsense pattern with his toes, as though he were writing out the entire alphabet.

“Yeah,” he finally replied quietly, smiling towards his shoes.

Hajime watched in fascination. The boy was wearing sports clothing, a white, bleached t-shirt tucked hastily in his dark blue jogging pants, and a sweatshirt thrown over his body. It was dark blue, too, with a number on the front, in white print, above the writing which stated the name of the sports club—

“Volleyball?” Hajime heard himself read out loud.

“Huh?” the boy asked, “Yeah— Yeah, I play volleyball.”

“Hajime, shush,” said his mother.

Hajime bit the inside of his cheek as he observed from the corner of his eye the boy turning his attention back to the glass of the window, staring at his reflection.

“Do you like it?” Hajime asked. The boy turned his head, slowly. He seemed confused, unsure, even.

“I’m Hajime,” he added, as though the mere mention of his name would calm him and clear everything up.

The boy nodded, hesitantly.

“What’s your name?” he asked. He was persistent; perhaps the boy was just shy, after all. He shifted in his seat.

“Tooru,” he said, eventually; slowly, and briefly, as though it wasn’t really his.

Hajime wondered whether he was lying.

“Hajime...,” the boy tested the name on his tongue, slowly, “Does that have any meaning?”

“Yeah,” Hajime swallowed thickly, “It means one.”

The boy snorted, softly, and fidgeted with his hands. He placed them between his knees, staring down at them.

“That’s a little disappointing,” he said.

Hajime frowned.

“Hey,” he spat, and folded his arms, “You’re not all—”

“Hajime!” his mother scolded, and grabbed his shoulder. She jostled him out of his seat.

“That’s enough,” she said. They exited the train, and that was that.

The plastic bag containing his shoes hit Tooru’s knee, the corner of the cardboard box jutting into his skin. It must have hurt, though Hajime didn’t apologise. He noticed it happening, yet he merely stared back at him, back into those eyes as the metallic silver doors slowly shut.

 

**ACT II**

In the grand scheme of things, Hajime didn’t sulk after Tooru.

Sometimes he sulked after the _idea_ of Tooru; he remained there, in the peripheries of his mind, even a year later.

Sometimes, he flung himself onto his bed, and lay back on duvet with his arms behind his head, ignoring his mother’s questions of whether he made any friends at whatever godforsaken club she made him join at school in order to make sure he wasn’t lonely, and he closed his eyes. He remembered the sunlight in the train, and the way it hit Tooru’s hair, just a little curly and messy, sticking to his forehead, and that stupid jacket, with the—

 _Volleyball_.

His eyes burst open, and he stared up at the ceiling.

He signed up for the volleyball club the next day at school.

He liked it. He was good. He made the team. He was even crowned ace, a year later, and he liked to admire the medals he won, neatly placed on his bookcase next to some unfinished novels. He even made some friends, yet his companionship with his teammates seemed to stop at the threshold of the gym. He never gave any of them his number, he never invited them home.

Though that that was a long time ago, now, and Hajime was sixteen, caught firmly between childhood and adulthood, which was very frustrating, to him. His haircut was the same. He was taller, and broader, his palms larger and rougher. He didn’t know whether he was handsome or not. He’d kissed some girls, in the dark, after school at other people’s houses or on open fields, when he’d hung out with some of his teammate’s friends, they were strangers, really, drinking and smoking. Hajime supposed he only tagged alone to feel like he was doing something, anything with his life, instead of swimming along in the stream. He wanted to be different, sure, but _everyone_ wanted to be that, which meant that _no one_ was.

He still remembered Tooru, too, though his face was a dusty and faded photograph stored at the back of his mind, right next to the name of his first grade teacher and his old address, before he moved to Tokyo. Perhaps Tooru was a little more important than that, though. He was surreal, the entire situation was surreal. At times Hajime even doubted that he was real, maybe he was a figure of his imagination, a dream.

Perhaps that’s why it him harder than the first time when Hajime say Tooru again, sitting there, in the same goddamn train in the same position on the same line at the same time.

It was evening. Hajime was on his way home, and it felt like a hard shock, hitting cold water with his arms and legs spread out, choking for breath. He was drowning.

Tooru looked older. He had changed, too. He was taller, and his features appeared sharper, his cheekbones were stronger, his nose was longer and not as round. His hair was wavy and a little long, resting over his forehead, each swoop and curl perfectly placed.  His eyes looked piercing, they were focused, and aware, no longer a murky abyss of hesitancy. They were almost too intense for Hajime to look at.

He couldn’t help but stare at him; it was pure magnetism.

He had headphones in, and was fondling his phone in his slender fingers, turning it, staring straight ahead, just like he did the first time, at the window in front of him. He was wearing a school uniform, tie undone and shirt half-way untucked.

Hajime blinked in wonder.

Tooru turned and met his eyes.

“You look like an alien,” Hajime said, knees unsteady as he reached up and held onto the pole above Tooru’s seat.

“What?” Tooru widened his eyes and furrowed his eyebrows. He licked his lips. It was similar to the expression he gave Hajime all those years ago, yet he couldn’t remember that it made him hurt to breathe that bad the last time, too. 

“That’s what I said to you the last time we met,” Hajime coughed into his fist, his bag slipping off of his shoulder, “Uh,” he mumbled, “I’m Hajime.” he said weakly. Tooru raised his eyes to look at him, really look at him. Hajime could feel his face heat.

“Yeah,” Tooru said, nodding slowly, “Yeah, I remember. You were that weird kid that kept looking into my eyes. Have you fallen in love with me and searched me down?” Tooru smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Fuck off,” Hajime laughed, despite himself. They shared an uncomfortable grin.

“How old were you back then?” Tooru asked, voice steady, and smooth. It made him seem older than he was.

“Eleven,” Hajime answered.

“Ah, that makes you...,” Tooru rolled his eyes, slowly, and then closed them. Hajime bit back a smile. For all he was worth, Tooru was thinking for an awfully long time just for simply mathematics.

“You’re seventeen, yeah?” said Tooru after a long while.

“Sixteen,” Hajime corrected, “Are you telling me you can’t add?”

“What? No,” Tooru huffed, “I had to remember the year we first met.”

Hajime had to remind himself that perhaps Tooru didn’t think about him as much as he did.

Tooru regarded him for a minute before he turned his attention to his phone, glancing down as he tapped at the screen, silently. He had dark circles underneath his eyes, and his eyelashes were long and dark against his pale skin, almost transparent. Hajime could see some of his veins underneath his eyes and down across his hands.

Hajime felt irritation build inside his chest and stomach.

“So,” he said, a little too loudly, “Where... What school do you go to?”

Tooru paused. He looked up.

“Nekoma,” he said, after a while, “I mean, I really don’t think you know it—”

“I do,” Hajime nodded, “Volleyball.” He clarified after a moment, coughing into his fist once again. His damn bag was still slipping as the train screech around a bend.

Tooru blinked, once, twice, maybe, and his mouth parted. He smiled, a little lopsidedly.

“You play volleyball?” he said quietly, like it was some precious secret.

“Yeah,” Hajime said, roughly, “What of it?”

“Nothing,” Tooru replied, “I do, too, so— what team?”

“What?”

“What team do you play for?” Tooru sat up in his seat, staring up at Hajime.

“Fukurodani.”

“Huh,” Tooru reclined again, “Weird.” He removed his gaze, returning it back to his phone. He spun it in his fingers, tapping the screen absentmindedly.

“What? Did you think I was stupid and didn’t get into high-school, or something?” Hajime frowned.

Tooru laughed. It was harmonious, and sounded like birds.

“Yeah,” he said, “I did.”

“You fucker—”

“I’m kidding,” Tooru breathed, “I— I was just talking about your team with my vice-captain.”

“ _Your_ vice-captain?” Hajime asked cautiously.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling wickedly, “ _I’m_ the captain, Hajime.” His name rolled off his tongue sweetly, in three steady syllables.

“Why are you so obnoxious about it?”

Tooru decided to blatantly ignore his question.

“What position do you play?” Tooru asked instead, licking his lips, “Are you a regular?”

Hajime leaned down a little. His bag slid down his shoulder further.

“I’m the ace.” he said, with such innate pride and confidence he swore he could see Tooru’s throat bob at the words, eyelids fluttering.

“Yeah?” Tooru exhaled.

“Yeah.” Hajime replied, and returned back to his position. Tooru stared off into the distance again. He was thinking, looking back towards the city skyline, where the sky and buildings connected and seamed into one another. Hajime swallowed.

“I’m meeting a few friends,” Tooru said cautiously.

“Cool,” Hajime replied, tapping his fingers against the pole, his hand getting sweaty, “What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know. Get drunk, probably,” Tooru licked his lips, “Are you— are you interested?”

Hajime felt his breath hitch. He looked back at Tooru, who was watching him.

“Yeah,” Hajime said, “I mean, I was on my way to meet someone, too, but they bailed on me.”

 _Lies_.

“Did they?” Tooru said. He had that misplaced half-smile on his face again. Hajime felt his fingers tingle at the sight.

“Yeah.” Hajime repeated. His body was rocking and swaying a little with the motions of the train. Tooru said nothing. He blinked, slowly, before directing his gaze out of the same goddamn window. It made Hajime anxious, strangely, as though Tooru were here, right _here_ , but not; in reach, yet out of touch, otherworldly, alien, distant and entirely foreign, maybe not even human.

After a long while, the train stopped. The mechanical voice read out the name of the station, and Tooru stood, proud and tall. He walked out, looking over his shoulder and pulling Hajime along, tugging on his sleeve with those slender fingers of his. Hajime snatched his arm out of his grip; he would follow Tooru regardless, wherever he went.

Hajime slouched next to him, hands in his pockets. Tooru walked far too elegantly for his age, and he stood out of the crowd like a sore thumb. His legs long in front of him, and he seemed a little transparent, as though he, again, wasn’t quite here, his head floating high in the clouds. Hajime stared at him, at the way the street lights illuminated his face, as wondered whether he would vanish and melt into the darkness that swallowed the city now. The roads and the pavement were slick and shiny, and gleamed in the artificial light of the streetlamps.

Their shoulders brushed, once or twice. Hajime felt his chest constrict, maybe he was dying. It definitely killed him not to turn his head and look at Tooru, really look at him, each time. He was magnetic, and he was drawn to him, even as Tooru was babbling on about volleyball. It sounded unreal, as though he were reading a script. Hajime made noises of approval, once in a while, and Tooru seemed pleased with the little response he gave.

Hajime tried to picture Tooru’s friends. He bet they all looked like they were out of a TV show, or a magazine, like Tooru himself; artificial, unreal, and entirely alien. They turned down a side street, then. It was dark, and it smelled a little, the air metallic and pungent. Hajime frowned. There was a bin resting against the brick wall, covered in graffiti.

Hajime thought about running away, there and then, but then Tooru’s finger’s brushed his own.

He was dead, for sure. Tooru murdered him with the small smile he gave Hajime, meeting his eyes, before he turned and waves, loud and brash. Hajime swallowed, thickly. He sighed.

A cackle of laugher broke the silence. In the depth of the darkness, Hajime saw flecks of light, presumably from cigarettes and lighters. As he was pulled forward by Tooru, he could make out the figures in the murky lighting; boy’s night only, it seemed.

“Hey,” one of them said, voice low and rough around his cigarette, “Tooru.” he nodded towards him, “Who’s this, then?”

“Ah,” Tooru laughed, “This is Hajime...,” he trailed off, head turning towards him.

“Iwaizumi Hajime.” he stuttered.

“Nice,” he hissed, “Kuroo Tetsuro.”

He was a cliché, Hajime realised, they all were. The guy couldn’t be much older than him, and here he was, feeling naive in comparison to Tetsuro, with his cool, black leather jacket and purposely ripped jeans, combat boots and cigarette. He even had sunglasses— even though it was dark outside— perched on top of his mess of black hair, probably dyed, from dark brown to black.

“Ah,” Tetsuro said, tilting his head back, “Where d’you know him from?”

“He’s my neighbour,” Tooru said, “Come on, give me a cigarette.”

Hajime eyed Tooru in awe at his incredible reflex of lying. 

“Get your own,” Tetsuro laughed, and lifted himself up to sit on top of the bin perched against the wall, slinging his arm around a smaller boy, around the same age, with dark hair, brown and curly against his forehead. He smiled, mysteriously, eyes squinting at Tooru as he extracted the box out of Tetsuro’s hands and held it out towards Tooru.

“Thanks, man,” Tooru laughed, “Hajime, this is Akaashi,” he gestured, “Akaashi, Hajime.”

Akaashi nodded towards him, silent. He didn’t introduce himself. Hajime thought that he was strange, mysterious and _cool_ yet slightly rude. He seemed like the kind of guy who was secretly incredibly lonely;  maybe he was an artist, a musician, a creative type, those who said they were so misunderstood yet had tons of friends and lovers who understood them completely.

He seemed posh and rich, too, and he had this long neck, pale and sleek and simply long, like a giraffe. Hajime supposed he was pretty, _really_ pretty, the kind of face that deserved a place way nicer than this alley, but still, not as pretty as—

Tooru lit the cigarette, and Hajime watched him, carefully.

“Want one?” Akaashi asked. His voice was rough.

“Yeah,” He exhaled, “Thanks.”

Tooru leaped up onto the bin, sliding next to Akaashi and trailing his fingers along his thigh, up to his hip, then down to his knee again. Akaashi fluttered his eyes shut, and exhaled smoke as he shifted in Tetsuro’s arms. Tooru leaned his head down towards him, muttering and whispering hushed words into his ear and he nodded, before Tooru retraced again and smiled, resting his head against the brick.

Tetsuro snorted in the silence.

Hajime wondered whether anyone would notice if he backed out of the alley.

“Hey, kid,” Tetsuro said, and Hajime felt his eyebrows twitch in annoyance, “What kind of music d’you listen to?”

Hajime licked his lips and toyed with his cigarette as he desperately tried to remember any scurrile, cool bands which would impress him. He didn’t even know why he wanted to impress him at all, but he blamed it on the nicotine, and Tooru; Tooru, who was laying his head in the crook of Akaashi’s neck, now, and breathing obscenities.

 Tooru was as good a drug as any.

“Uh,” Hajime stuttered and took a drag of his cigarette, smoke burning his lungs, “The Neighbourhood is pretty good.”

Tetsuro grinned.

Hajime saw Tooru smile up at Akaashi as Akaashi traced his fingers along Tooru’s palm, and Hajime felt unspoken anger against giraffes.

“Yeah, they are,” he said, “Nice.” He laughed, then, a guffaw that echoed in the alley.

Hajime laughed a little, too, despite himself. He wasn’t sure whether it was an insult or not, but he liked the way Tooru looked up at him at the noise, and the way his eyes reflected Akaashi’s lighter as he lit another cigarette, and the way he let him hang out with his older, cooler friends. He didn’t remember when the image of Tooru as an innocent, naive, alien and lost boy left his head, with those deep, dark, eyes, was replaced by this; by alleys and cigarette smoke and the smell of trash in the air, and Tetsuro’s dumb leather jacket squeaking as he stole Akaashi’s cigarette.

Tooru laughed, honest and pure.

In the end, Hajime didn’t even remember how he got home. His mother wasn’t home, she was meeting her friends, and his father was away with work. Alone, and little lonely, he trotted up the stairs and fell into his room.

He wondered what Tooru was doing now, in the darkness of the city. Maybe he was with Akaashi, touching him and trailing his long fingers against his skin, maybe Akaashi was tracing the jut of Tooru’s collarbones, the dip of his spine, running his hands through his hair, or maybe Akaashi was leaning over his body, palms flat against Tooru’s thighs as he heard Tooru whisper, _‘Ah, shit— fuck, Hajime—’_

_Shit._

He woke up in his bed with a headache, a heartache, and a new contact in his phone, just _Tooru_ , nestled underneath _Takema_ and _Tamaki_.

 

**ACT III**

Hajime waited a total of three days before Tooru texted him. He didn’t see him again until the weekend, when he texted him an address.

‘ _Akaashi’s_ ’,’ it said, ‘ _8 p.m. Saturday.’_ He even had the gauge to send him the alien emoji. Hajime frowned at it. It seemed forced, impersonal, and artificial, as though it was alibi for something else.

Hajime wondered how big Akaashi’s TV was when he read the address; Akasaka, where the rich kids lived. It took Hajime an hour to get there, from his small house in the suburbs, with his mother’s 2007 bright blue Toyota parked out in the front.

There was a silver intercom embedded into Akaashi’s front door, and Hajime buzzed it, once and probably a little too long.

He waited. There was a click, and then he heard Akaashi’s voice through it.

“Hey,” Hajime said, “It’s Ha— Iwaizumi.”

After a short pause, and a whispered conversation Hajime couldn’t fully understand, Akaashi hung up, and the gates groaned open.

“Your house is pretty big,” he said, stumbling over the threshold of Akaashi’s front door. He was wearing a sweater that seemed a little too large for him, or maybe he was just too lean. Hajime wondered whether it was Tooru’s.

His neck still looked long, even in the daylight. Hajime felt his anger against giraffes boil once more.

“Yeah,” Akaashi said, “I guess.”

Akaashi was the sort of person who guessed a lot.

He led Hajime upstairs, past the foyer and living room, it had a chandelier and a grand piano, and over thick carpets. Akaashi stepped forward and opened a door, presumably to his room. It was large, it even had a sofa, and Hajime spied a double bed, and a desk, and a music stand, a violin lying next to it.

_Knew it._

Tooru, Tetsuro, and one other guy, with brown hair, a little boring and basic, around the same age, slouched on the carpet, in the middle of the room.

“Ah,” one of them said, smoke coming out of his mouth.

 “Kenji, at least open the windows,” Akaashi said, stepping towards the pile of teenagers.

Tooru smiled up at Hajime, though it wasn’t real, it was symmetrical, and too bright. Akaashi leaned back towards him, and Tooru did the same dancing, trailing motion of his fingers against Akaashi’s thigh.

“I’ve got it,” said a voice, and Hajime turned, seeing another boy appear behind him. He raised his eyebrows slightly when he say Hajime.

“What’s your name?” He asked, stepping over the long legs sprawled over the carpet to open a window, with minimal struggle.

“Iwaizumi Hajime.”

He smiled again, over his shoulder, and stepped back, closer to him. He smelt of smoke, too; the same scent that hung around Tetsuro and Tooru, and, evidently, Kenji.

“Nice,” he said, and Hajime wondered whether he picked the way he hissed the word up from Tetsuro, or whether it was the other way around, “I’m Tadashi Yamaguchi.”

His freckles were nice, Hajime thought, though he liked the light moles on Tooru’s neck and across his shoulders more, they reminded him of stars, maybe the galaxy, the entire universe—

 _What a creep_.

Kenji made a quiet, angry sound in the silence. There was a crackling voice of a singer and the faint noise of a guitar playing from Akaashi’s phone.

“Arcade Fire’s first album is a _snoozefest_ ,” Tetsuro snorted, “Put something else on.”

Hajime sat down on the carpet and crossed his legs. Tooru hummed along to the song and flicked his cigarette into the ashtray, continently placed next to Akaashi’s hip, which gave him the excuse to trail his fingers along the jut of Akaashi’s hipbone every time he leant over to use it.

“It’s not,” Akaashi mumbled, but regardless, he picked up her phone and changed the song. It was faster now, and Hajime didn’t recognise it. It had a steady, fast beat, rattling his bones.

Kenji had spliff between his lips, and smiled widely at him.

“Iwaizumi, yeah?” he said.

“Yeah,” said Hajime.

“Futakuchi Kenji,” he gestured to himself, “You wanna...,” he nodded towards his joint.

“Nah,” Hajime said, “I’m good.”

“Ah, Hajime,” Tooru spoke, “Don’t be a bore, come on.”

Kenji raised his eyebrows appreciatively, and took Hajime’s fingers, placing the joint between them. He smiled.

Hajime frowned through the faint smoke. He moved the spliff between his lips, and let it rest there, inhaling a little before immediately exhaling.

Tooru laughed, wickedly.

“God, Hajime, you’re useless!” he said, scrambling towards him, “Give it to me,” he took the joint from Hajime’s fingers and sat in front of him, knees touching his own.

“Listen,” Tooru continued, “When I tap you, you exhale, and then, when I tap you again, you inhale, through your mouth. Got it?” Hajime nodded dumbly.

Tooru grinned, and tapped him, once, inhaling the spliff, before leaning close to Hajime, far too close. Hajime opened his mouth, and weakly inhaled the smoke from Tooru’s mouth. His eyes were hooded, and his skin seemed soft and far too pale, his lips too dry and the rings under his eyes, still deep and far too easy to get lost in, seemed too dark. Hajime wondered whether it was worth it, whether any of this was worth it. He could leave, he could leave _right now_ —

“That was easy, wasn’t it?” Tooru smiled at him, and Hajime licked his lips, frowning.

“Yeah,” he replied dumbly, and Tooru scooted back, spliff in hand. He repeated the motion with Akaashi, multiple times, leaning closer, this time. It made Hajime’s head spin and chest ache.

Kenji and Tetsuro were arguing, just a little, voices low, and Tetsuro informed Kenji that he just didn’t _get_ Lana del Rey, whereas Kenji scoffed and slurred his words, punching him on the shoulder, asking whether Tetsuro was a fucking girl looking for a sugar daddy, because that’s what Lana keeps singing about in every goddamn song. Tetsuro laughed.

Hajime leaned his head back, his teeth clenching together. His vision was blurring a little.

“You alright?” Tadashi asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, and blinked furiously, rubbing at his eyes. When he looked back up, Tooru and Akaashi had stood up, and Hajime watched his pale fingers trail over Akaashi’s wrist, pressing into his skin.

“Hey— Tadashi — where did Tooru and Akaashi go?”

Kenji snorted. Tadashi’s lips twitched.

“They’ve gone to— they went— I think they went to, you know...,” Tadashi mumbled, “They’ve gone to do some kissing,” he finished weakly.

“They’re playing hide the sausage,” Kenji wheezed, face weak, as though that sentence was the single saddest one he’d ever uttered.

Hajime frowned.

“They’re banging,” Tetsuro hissed, leaning towards Hajime to whisper directly into his ear. Hajime swatted him away.

“Yeah,” he snapped, “Yeah, I get that.” Hajime let his head tip backwards once more. He felt strange, sort of cold, and lonely, completely unsure of what to do. He felt as though he was an outsider, the others were absorbed in themselves and each other. He stood up, and wondered what the _hell_ he was doing here in the first place.

“I’m leaving,” he finally said, and turned the door knob.

“Do you need help getting home?” Tadashi asked. He was kind, that way.

“Nah,” Hajime replied, “I’ll be— I’m fine.” he said, mostly to himself.

“Alright,” Tetsuro said, “We’ll see you soon, yeah?”

Hajime nodded weakly. His chest was tight, and so, he stepped outside, heading downstairs, into the large foyer he had first entered.

Tooru and Akaashi were nowhere to be seen.

 

**ACT IV**

He didn’t hear from Tooru for a week. He sighed, sound echoing in his room, and his dropped his pen on top of his physics textbook. Physics was simple; there was always a solution, Hajime merely had to try hard enough to find it. People, on the other hand, were difficult, and wasn’t Tooru the most complex one, really?

“Fuck,” he said weakly.

His phone vibrated. Hajime stared at it. It vibrated once more. Hajime froze. He tried to resist.

“Fuck it,” he told himself, and checked it. The screen showed two messages.

 _‘Are you mad at me?_ ’ it read.

 _‘Yeah_ ,’ Hajime wanted to say, _‘I’ve been pissed at you for the past six years, thanks for noticing, and I don’t even know why.’_

 The second message read, ‘ _I’m really sorry, Hajime, I shouldn’t have left you_.’

A third: ‘ _Are you free tomorrow?’_

Hajime frowned. He really should say, ‘ _No, I’m not, I’m sick of your weird friends and I don’t want an excuse of being high or drunk or whatever to fucking speak to you—_ ’

He didn’t. He found himself Friday night sitting in a park with Tooru, beer can in hand. They shared a portion of chips.

Tooru stared straight ahead again, avoiding him. Hajime wanted to ask him about Akaashi. He didn’t. He sat there, knees and thighs touching Tooru’s, pretending to text someone when things got too quiet.

At last, Tooru inhaled a short breath.

“Why did you leave?” he asked Hajime, “Akaashi’s, I mean.”

Hajime shrugged. He wiped the crumbs of his chips on his thighs.

“Did you not like it?” Tooru said, eventually.

_Did you not like me?_

Hajime frowned.

“Not really,” he said.

Tooru nodded, and Hajime felt anger boil in his chest again. He wanted to tell Tooru to leave, but at the same time, he could think of nothing worse. He wanted to know more, he wanted to know everything.

He wanted to know how he met Tetsuro and Akaashi and Tadashi and Kenji, he wanted to know what position he played on his volleyball team, he wanted to know if he fucked Akaashi, he wanted to know whether he had any siblings, what his favourite colour was, what his favourite subject was, what he wanted to do after school; he wanted to make Tooru less of a mystery, less of an idea, and slightly less alien, to humanise him.

In the end, he simply asked, in a dull tone, “Where do you live?”

Tooru turned his head and stared.

“I mean, I met you on that fucking train,” Hajime coughed in his fist, “I guess I just want to know where it took you.”

Tooru bit his lip.

“Shibuya,” he said, and added, quickly, “Is your volleyball team going to nationals?” 

“No,” Hajime said, “We didn’t make it.” he grumbled, and linked his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees.

Tooru nodded.

“That’s a shame,” he said, a little too loudly, “It would have been fun to see you there.”

“I guess,” Hajime mumbled, “Why do you care?”

Tooru scoffed.

“Alright,” he said, “Easy.” he condescended, as though Hajime were some pet of his, a dangerous animal— a scorpion, or something— that only Tooru could hold in his hands and tame.

Hajime stuffed the last of his chips in his mouth before crumbling the bag up into a ball.

“You don’t have to pretend to like me,” Hajime said, “I’m not a kid.”

He regretted saying that. It sounded childish.

“Alright,” Tooru said again, and stared straight ahead. He took a long sip of his beer before placing it next to him.

Eventually, Tooru turned towards him again.

“Hey, listen,” Tooru said, “Let’s all hang out Saturday, I’ll bring drinks and a cake. My friends like you, they all want to see you again. _I_ want to see you again.”

Hajime blinked. He couldn’t resist.

 “A cake?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Tooru smiled, a little lopsided, “Do you not like cake, Hajime?”

Hajime frowned. He’d be friends with Tooru, he decided, get to know him, until he found out what position he played on his goddamn volleyball team that was going to fucking _nationals_. Tooru was probably a genius on the court, maybe he was a spiker, with deadly precision, or a blocker, he was tall enough, or maybe—

They sat side-by-side for another half an hour, in silence. Tooru lit a cigarette, and eventually, left, walking into a dark street, shoulders hunched. They didn’t get onto the train together. Hajime wondered where he slept that night; maybe at Tetsuro’s, or another one of his strange friends with their weird taste in music.

Hajime felt a little annoyed, after that.

 

**ACT V**

True to Tooru’s word, they met again Saturday night, and it was dark outside, full moon in the sky as Hajime stepped out at the station Tooru said he’d meet him at. He was there, standing in a sweatshirt that was a little too large, his long, thin legs stuck into combat boots, leather old and worn and dusty. He had a strange, wistful smile on his face. Hajime didn’t understand it, but said nothing as Tooru led him to somebody’s flat, the roof was flat, and so they climbed up a fire escape to meet the others, huddled in thick jumpers, and they smoked.

Kenji brought sparklers, _of course_ he did, and Tooru giggled widely as Tetsuro chased him with one. Hajime sat on the ground, staring dumbly up at Tooru’s bright smile.

“So, get this,” Kenji said, spliff in his fingers, leaning towards Tadashi and Hajime, “You see this bruise?” He gestured towards the blue and dark purple fleck on his chin, across his jaw, “I come home yesterday evening. My dad sees me. He says, ‘Son,’” Kenji puffed his chest out and lowered his voice, “‘Come here— where did you get that bruise from?’, and I say, ‘I was defending the honour of my boyfriend, good sir,’, and he says, ‘Boyfriend? Get out of my house, you _fucking faggot_!’”

Hajime swallowed thickly. Tadashi blinked at Hajime. Hajime stared back.

“So here I am,” Kenji laughed, “I got out of the house. Any you know where I live now? At the same exact boyfriend’s place— you know him, Hajime? He works down at that tattoo parlour in Ikebukuro, his name’s Yuji Terushima.”

“Nah,” Hajime said weakly, “I don’t, sorry.”

“‘S alright,” Kenji snorted, “I mean, no offense, kid, but you don’t look like you frequent tattoo parlours.”

“And you do?” Hajime ground his teeth.

“Nah, I only fuck their artists.”

Kenji took a long drag of his joint, and that was that.

Tooru cracked his back, and said, “Hey, how about that cake, Tetsuro?”

Tetsuro groped behind him, extracting a plastic bag, pulling out a store-bought chocolate cake.

“Anyone got a knife?” he asked, eyes large and feline-like in the darkness.

They looked at one another and laughed, at their own foolishness. It was a cliché, Hajime thought, and felt oddly warm as Tooru looked over towards him.

Their breath clouded together and eventually, Tadashi stood and left for a while, returning with a knife.

_So it was his flat, after all._

He sliced the cake up, grinning. It was absurd, but hearing Tooru giggle breathlessly again, and Tetsuro cackle loudly made Hajime smile, grinning brightly and a little boyishly. Tooru leaned up against him, titling his head back, staring at Akaashi with half-lidded eyes. Hajime couldn’t stop grinning, it was strange. He bared his teeth, and his tongue tasked like cheap beer and cigarette smoke, and the rich chocolate of the cake.

He said something, he forgot what it was, and Kenji wheezed out the first laugh, Tadashi leant backwards and grinned, too. Hajime felt proud, and Tooru bumped his elbow against Hajime, smiling, lopsidedly and secretively, and for a brief moment, it felt as though they were alone and knew something wonderful that no one else knew.

“Let’s go camping,” Tetsuro said, “In the summer; all of us, and Kenma and Tsukkishima and—” He said some other names, foreign and unknown. In that moment, Hajime was thrown back into reality, and remembered that he really didn’t know any of them, they were strangers. Even Tooru was a mystery.

Kenji laughed, and said that he could drive them. Tooru said he had a tent— “No, you don’t,” said Akaashi, “Yes, I do,” said Tooru— and that they could all share it together, and swim in the sea and barbeque on the sand.

Akaashi told Tooru to stop lying, and Tetsuro whined in between them, telling them to stop arguing. Tadashi giggled, widely enthusiastic.

Hours later, Hajime woke. He didn’t remember when he fell asleep, and his head was heavy. He looked up. Tooru and Tetsuro were laughing, singing alone to a distant song, something about cars going nowhere. Hajime frowned.

“You can stay here, if you like,” Tadashi mumbled beside him, and later led him down into the flat, it was small, Tadashi told him it was only he and his grandma lived there. Hajime didn’t ask any questions. He fell down and collapsed into the brown sofa, which was more foam than fabric, and slept.

Tooru and Tetsuro and the others disappeared into the darkness once more.

 

**ACT VI**

The next weeks followed a similar pattern. Tooru would text him if he was free, he always was, and Hajime would arrive at the address he was given, sometimes it was someone’s flat, or a park, an open field, or an alley. Tooru introduced Hajime to music, too, and he liked it, mainly, except the dainty, acoustic guitar songs which Tooru loved so much, he said it made him sad. Hajime didn’t know why he _liked_ to feel sad, but he liked the deeper, stronger sounds more, the ones which shook you down to the core, the raw ones, with scratchy vocals and loud instruments. He liked them in the same way you liked a great white shark, a scorpion, a lion. They were interesting to look at behind glass, or steel bars, but it was nerve-wracking to be up close and personal to.

School remained the same, too. He worked hard, tried his best, especially in math and science. Art was horrible, though. His teacher told the students to paint emotions, and he got hatred. He briefly considering painting Tooru, but that wasn’t quite true, was it?

In the end he tried to draw a half-assed easel, trying to be all meta and deep and profound. His teacher didn’t like it.

“Hey, Hajime,” his friend said to him one day after volleyball practice, “Are you free today? We can study for that English test together. I’ve got Halo, too.”

Hajime loved videogames, and he probably should have studied, yet he said no, he said he had to finish some chores at home. He fell against his pillows and closed his eyes, tapping his phone against his lips, waiting for a sign, a text message, a call. Anything hurt less than the quiet; the quiet which resulted before and after he and Tooru and his friends hung out. They didn’t text anything other than _‘Are you free?_ ’ or ‘ _Let’s meet tonight, I’ll buy you a drink—_ ’

“Where do you always go on the weekends?” his mother asked him once, “I spoke to Tobio’s mother. She said Tobio hadn’t seen you for weeks. Did you fight?”

“No,” He said, “We didn’t.”

“Are you sure?” She persisted, “You’ve been strange lately, Hajime.”

Hajime merely frowned.

His phone vibrated beside him; once, then again.

‘ _Hey, Hajime_ ,’ it said, ‘ _I’ve got tickets from_ _Akaashi to see Foals’_

Then, ‘ _It’ll be fun, you should come!!’_ , followed by a peace sign and that fucking alien head once more.  Hajime fidgeted. Tooru continued, saying they should meet up, just him and Tooru, at Shinjuku.

Hajime frowned. The thought of Tooru and him being alone in the night-time lingered in his head.

“Where are you going?” his mother called after him as Hajime thumped down the stairs, slinging a jacket over his shoulders.

“I’m seeing a friend, don’t wait up.” he said.

“Hang on a minute—” she called once more, but Hajime slammed the door, and slumped off towards the train station.

He sighed. Tooru was costing him a fortune in train fares.

Hajime arrived a little late. He waited.

Ten minutes passed by.

Two more minutes, and he fidgeted.

Groaning, he took out his phone.

 _‘Where are you?’_ He sent to Tooru.

He shifted his weight from side to side.

Fifteen more minutes ticked slowly by.

Hajime sighed, and scrolled through his contact list for Tooru’s number. It rang. He didn’t pick up. Hajime re-dialled. It continued to ring.

A group of tourists passed by him, up the steps, and Hajime flattened himself against the wall.

He sighed once more, and called Tetsuro.

“Yeah?” he heard him say.

“Hey,” Hajime said, “It’s me.”

“Ah— what’s up, Hajime?”

“I’m, uh— I’m supposed to be meeting Tooru, but he’s not here. Do you know where he is? He’s not picking up his phone, so...,” Hajime trailed off, voice low. He dragged his palm down his face.

“Hajime,” Tetsuro said, gently, “I don’t think— he’s probably not going to come.”

“What?”

“He’s a liar,” Tetsuro said, “He makes shit up.”

“What?” he said again, frowning. He felt as though he were back in the alley the first time he met Tooru’s friends, out of place and awkward.

Tetsuro was silent for a moment.

“He does that a lot,” he said, “It’s— it’s like his hobby, or something. He enjoys it,” he stopped for a moment, “I think.” he finished.

“That’s— is it— is it a mental problem?”

That wasn’t quite right. It sounded as though Tetsuro had said Tooru was insane, complete crazy, and that simply wasn’t quite right; Hajime was a little, crazy too, after all. Who thinks about some guy he met on a train for years and years, thinking of those lips and eyes when the lights turned out, whispered his name in the darkness?

Tetsuro sighed.

“I don’t think so.”

“So what?” Hajime was angry now, “He does it for fun? What kind of a sick bastard—”

“Hey,” Tetsuro huffed, “You don’t know _shit_ , okay?”

Hajime wasn’t breathing

“How well do you really know him, Hajime?” Tetsuro added, softer, now.

Hajime ground his teeth. He knew the answer.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I’ll talk to you later, yeah?” Tetsuro said, and hung up.

The silence screamed in his ear.

“Shit,” Hajime hissed, “Fuck!”

He punched the wall behind him.

 

**ACT VII**

He told himself not think about Tooru. He tried to, too, but it didn’t work. In the following two years, he’d thought about him a lot.

It annoyed him.

The two years flowed steadily by, Hajime continued to play volleyball, applied to university, got his grades, and was accepted.

Another year dragged past, and in his second year at university, he was still thinking of Tooru.

It was absurd. Tooru was in the back of his mind, seemingly always there, an image, alien, smelling of smoke and sounding of the stringy, low guitars he loved so much. Sometimes he found himself thinking of Tetsuro, Tadashi, Kenji, and Akaashi, too, and their weed and messy hair, their cool outfits and dark alleys.

And just like that, they vanished from Hajime’s mind, and he continued doing whatever he was doing, calculations in the library or watching films on Tobio’s stained couch, drinking beer and snorting once in a while at the jokes Hinata made.

It was absurd, really, that he ended up meeting Tooru again on the same damn train. Across the carriage he saw the head of wavy, brown hair, and dark, hair, pale skin and lean body, and a dumb, a little too large sweater, in dark blue, backpack thrown over his shoulder. He was older, sure, and he seemed put together, now, elegant, even. He was sitting in the same spot, too, tapping on his phone.

The train squealed into the next stop, and a little old woman got onto the train, and Hajime watched Tooru smile and stand, offering the seat to her. She thanked him, and he laughed lightly. Hajime felt as though his stomach was eating itself.

Tooru moved to stand in the middle of the train, close to Hajime, now. He stared. Tooru looked up at him. His eyes widened and his lips parted.

“You look like an alien,” Hajime said.

“What?” Tooru stuttered.

“You look like an alien,” He repeated, “That’s what I said to you when we met; both times.”

“Both— both times?”

“Yeah,” Hajime felt his throat closing, “We met when I was a kid, and the last time, I was sixteen.”

“Oh,” Tooru said, “Yeah.”

The train slowed, then sped up once more. Tooru’s eyes were large, still, though his face was leaner, his eyes hadn’t changed.

“What do you do, these days?” Tooru spoke.

“University,” he said, “Todai— Physics.”

Tooru blinked, and his lips twitched.

“Ah—” he stopped himself. He was unsure, shy, even, and entirely different from the confidence he had back in high school, it seemed.

Hajime frowned.

“What are you doing now?” he asked Tooru.

“I’m at university,” he said, quietly, “Todai.”

“Who’d’ve guessed,” Hajime said.

“Huh?”

Hajime grinned a little. “You seemed so cool,” he said, “Back then, you thought you were James Dean or some shit.”

Tooru’s eyebrow twitched, and he pouted, a little.

“I was in a college prep class, you know,” he replied, “With Tetsuro.” he added after a moment.

Hajime blinked. He didn’t think of Tetsuro, with his dumb, black hair and leather jacket, as being smart enough to ever—

“He’s in England,” Tooru sighed, “Exchange year. Hey,” he continued, “You still got the same number?”

“No.”

“Give me your phone,” Tooru said, and Hajime frowned. He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“We should hang out some time.” Tooru said after a moment, typing in his number before handing Hajime’s phone back. Their fingers touched, a little too long.

“Sure,” Hajime agreed, and Tooru grinned.

The train rolled to a half. Tooru glanced out the window.

“Ah, this is my stop,” he said, “See you later, Hajime.” he slurred and waved to Hajime.

Tooru hopped off onto the platform just before the doors closed. Just like that, he was gone once more, out of Hajime’s peripheral vision and life.

Hajime expected that Tooru wouldn’t call him, that he’d lied about going to university and typed in a wrong number. That evening though, as he sat on Tobio’s sofa in their shared flat, his phone vibrated, once, twice.

‘ _It was nice to see you again,’_ it said, then, ‘ _Wanna come over? I’d like to see you.’_ At the end there was the alien emoji, and an address, not far from here— close to campus.

 _Huh_.

Hajime waited until he heard Tobio’s key scraping the lock. He stood up, then, and the front door slammed.

“Hey,” Tobio said, as Hajime moved to search for his jacket.

“How was your day?” he asked him, as Tobio toed his shoes off and kicked them aside. He looked up.

“Alright,” he said, “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” Hajime lied, “I’m going out to meet a friend. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Tobio’s face was somewhat off, but he nodded as Hajime replied to Tooru, jamming his keys into his pocket. Hajime slammed the door on his way out. 

It didn’t take him long to reach Tooru’s place. There were four floors, and a tiny paved front area where the bins stood. For a brief moment, he thought of the alley and of Tetsuro and Akaashi, and then, Hajime rapped on the door and waited.

There was silence for a moment, and he thought that maybe Tooru had lied, maybe he didn’t live here at all, maybe he would vanish again—

“You came,” Tooru said after a moment. He looked pale, and slightly startled, as though he couldn’t believe that Hajime was truly here.

“Yeah,” he replied, “Why wouldn’t It?”

Tooru shrugged and opened the door further. Hajime stepped inside. It was dark.

“The light bulb blew,” Tooru said, gesturing to the ceiling. He watched Hajime toe his shoes off, and led Hajime further into the flat, towards the kitchen.

“Nice place,” he stated, “Who else lives here?”

“Some people from my course,” Tooru said, “Law. Are you hungry?” He asked, as though he didn’t _want_ to speak about himself, “I can make you something—”

“It’s fine,” Hajime said. Tooru nodded, and toyed with the edge of the counter.

“I never— I never really thought you’d go to university,” Hajime confessed, suddenly. Tooru fixated a strange stare on him. Hajime felt like he was drowning.

“Did you think I was dumb, Hajime?”

“No,” he said, “Not at all.”

_You were always too smart for your own good._

Tooru stared at him, and Hajime was swallowed entirely by it, as though it were a wave, and he were in the middle of the Atlantic, cold and dark and deep.

“You’re at— you’re at university,” Hajime spoke, “That’s— cool, good. That’s... cool.” He looked desperately around the kitchen. It was bare. Tooru continued to pick at the counter. Hajime wondered why he was here in the first place, or why Tooru had invited him here, or why he hadn’t lead him into his room—

“Are you—” said Hajime, trying to keep his voice calm, level, even, and he coughed “Are you seeing anyone?”

Tooru blinked at him. The fridge hummed softly.

“No,” he said, eventually, “No, there isn’t— there isn’t anyone.”

Every muscle in Hajime’s body contracted, and screamed as though the braked suddenly slammed down. He tried to breathe, but he couldn’t. Tooru looked at him, and moved closer. His face was mere inches away.

_Fuck it._

Hajime kissed him. Tooru leaned back into it, his movements fluid and elegant, seeping through Hajime like waves crashing against him as Hajime wrapped his arms around Tooru, hands on his waist. Tooru inhaled sharply through his nose and snaked an arm around Hajime’s shoulder, trailing his hand down his neck and across his chest, the other sliding through his hair, pulling him towards him as Hajime held him tighter, fingernails digging into Tooru’s skin painfully. Tooru’s back hit the counter, and he sat on top of it, lips not trailing away as he tilted his head and opened his mouth. He was warm, and _God_ he was good. Hajime wondered if he’d done this a lot.

“Tooru—” he pulled away and gasped desperately into his mouth, “You—”

Tooru shushed him and pressed his mouth against Hajime’s once more, until there was no Hajime’s mouth and his mouth, only their mouths intertwined, together, the lines between them blurring like tie-dye ink splashed over a white t-shirt. Tooru’s soft fingers traced the line of Hajime’s jaw, and Hajime kissed him harder, possessive, even, and animalistic in a way that surprised Hajime. He rolled his hips insistently, all anxieties and uncertainties pushed aside as Tooru groaned into his mouth. It probably was a bad idea, doing this, but Hajime lost his train of thought as Tooru slammed his hips against Hajime’s and shoved a thigh between his legs, rocking and pushing and rutting hard.

When Hajime came, his scream of pain into Tooru’s neck was indistinguishable from agony, raw and low in his throat. Tooru forced a hand into the front of his hands and came, too, in his underwear. He gritted his teeth and close his eyes, hissing, and Hajime weakly wondered why he hadn’t gritted his teeth around the skin on Hajime’s neck instead, leaving marks; a reminder that this was real, that he was real.

They stayed like that, for a while, and Hajime absently drew patterns on Tooru’s back, hand underneath his sweater. Tooru swallowed.

“I have some reading to finish,” he said in a hoarse mouth, and pulled himself away.

“Okay,” said Hajime, staring at Tooru’s flushed face and mussed up hair. He wished he hadn’t said that, because it _wasn’t_ okay in the slightest; nothing was, not really.

“I’ll try and see you on campus sometime this week, yeah?” Tooru said, smiling, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Okay,” Hajime repeated.

He walked home in dirty jeans and underwear. It was so like them, really. It seemed unreal and absurd, like the plot of one of those dumb, hipster films found on seedy website or posted on YouTube because they didn’t have any copyright, anyway, that Tobio watched sometimes with Shouyo, because Shouyo’s flat mate Chikara was a film major and he’d said it was good, or something.

Hajime never understood those films, so it was just as well that he came home feeling lonely and confused. He’d slept badly that night, jerking awake every hour or so. He’d felt slightly less dirty in the morning, but only until he’d showered and thought of the smell of Tooru’s shampoo and got hard then and there. It was a little demeaning.

He didn’t hear from Tooru for the next couple of days, either. He found himself sulking around his flat, waiting, checking his phone, but there was nothing there.

It was also so like Tooru that he would ring him five days after their last encounter when Hajime was in a lecture. It was strange. His phone was usually always on silent, he hated unexpected noises.

Everyone looked at him.

“Sorry,” said Hajime. He hung up on Tooru.

“Who was that?” his desk-neighbour, Daichi, asked.

“No one,” Hajime sighed. It’d be too difficult to explain, anyway.

He called Tooru back as soon as he was outside.

“Hi,” he heard Tooru say.

“Hey,” Hajime answered, “I couldn’t answer earlier, sorry— I was in class.”

“That’s alright,” Tooru replied, hastily, as though he were in a rush, “Are you free tonight?”

Hajime stared at his feet, shuffling and shifting his weight a little.

“Uh, yeah,” he said after a moment, “I am.”

“Nice,” Tooru said, and Hajime thought of Tetsuro. He scoffed, despite himself.

“Is something the matter?” Tooru asked, sounding a little offended.

“Nah,” Hajime said, “I just— when you say nice that way, it makes me think of Tetsuro, you know—”

“Yeah,” Tooru said, “I do— he’s studying chemistry, you know, he was top of his year.” He could hear Tooru smile, proud, almost bragging, as though he were a bashful parent.

“Really?” Hajime smiled, lopsidedly, since Tooru could be so adorable, that way.

“Yeah,” Tooru repeated, a little quieter, this time.

It was silent for a moment.

“You should come over.” Hajime heard himself say.

“Okay.” Tooru said, a little shyly, “Text me your address, yeah?”

In the background, Hajime could hear distant voices.

“Listen,” Tooru spoke, “I’ve got to go. See you then, Hajime.” he said, singing those three syllables melodically, and that was that.

Hajime knew it meant, the invitation; it meant pressing their bodies close together, sharing breaths, slick with sweat and saliva, and mouths glued firmly together, as though if Hajime would let Tooru go he would disappear, once more, and cease to exist. Sometimes Tooru would slow down, and slide his palms down Hajime’s forearms, curl his fingers around his wrist, look him in the eye, and inhale the air Hajime exhaled, shakily.

 

Hajime savoured the first time they _really_ did it, when Tooru stopped Hajime’s hand as he reached down between their chests to jerk him off to completion. Hajime froze and stared deep into Tooru’s eyes, dark and blown, he could even see his own reflection in them.

“I—” Tooru said, breath heaving, “I want you inside me.”

Hajime felt his chest and throat constrict. His fingers went numb, his skin afire.

“Is that— is that okay?” Tooru asked, shyly.

Hajime nodded dumbly, then answered, “Yeah,” once he was sure his voice was as steady as possible.

Tooru nodded, and Hajime reached to his bedside table, pulling out a bottle of lube and some condoms. Hajime silently watched him finger himself open. He didn’t dare touch Tooru, even though he wanted to. He wanted to lace their fingers together and press his palm and fingers and lips against Tooru’s skin, feel all of Tooru and nothing else, let him forget everything, for a while, and simply bask in each other. It was strange. Tooru simply sat in Hajime’s lap, hands reaching behind him, and Hajime watched him, hands resting on Tooru’s hips, thumbs drawing nonsense patterns, staring up at him with blown irises.

It was intimidating, and Hajime felt as though he were in a museum, staring at some famous, ancient marble statue, clean and sleek and pure, and he sensed it’s beauty, sure, but he didn’t quite understand it as well as other’s did, those others who awed at its form and shape and wrote dissertations and books about one damn _statue_.

Tooru rode Hajime that night, and his nails left marks in Hajime’s shoulders that remained for weeks. Hajime left marks, too, because it felt as though he were complete and simply _right_. Hajime wanted to remember it forever. He never wanted to forget a single moment of it, of any of it; they slid against each other too well, moulded into one another, and Tooru had seeped into every single one of Hajime’s pores. 

When they were done, Hajime turned towards Tooru and watched him, sunken deep into the mattress, calm and serene, otherworldly. Hajime’s eyelids prickled a little at the sight of Tooru turning towards him, lying on his side, smiling, and curling his fingers and saying, “Hey, I’m gonna take a nap, alright?”

It was more than alright, but it wasn’t enough. Hajime didn’t want Tooru to leave, ever.

Tobio didn’t say anything about it, but Hajime was certain he knew. He must have heard it, anyhow. Tooru wasn’t quiet, in any spurn of his life; he was a hurricane, and Hajime was merely drizzle.

Most nights, Hajime found himself reaching out towards Tooru, but he was always merely a thought a dream, and not quite human. He didn’t really know all that much about him in the first place. He was an ideal.

He was too good for Hajime. He was too good for anyone.

 

**ACT VIII**

The pattern continued for three months; three _agonising_ months of Tooru asking whether he was free, and Hajime always replying that he was.

He wished it wasn’t like that. He wished he knew what Tooru’s position on his stupid fucking high-school volleyball team had been.

Then one night, he was awoken by Tobio’s voice and a cold rush of air as his duvet was ripped from his back.

“Hey,” Tobio said, voice rough, “Your friend is here.”

“Tell him not to come to fucking early.” Hajime blinked blearily.

“It’s _eleven_ ,” Tobio groaned, “God, Hajime. Get your shit together.”

Hajime couldn’t argue with that. Tobio was usually right, anyhow.

It was Tooru; _of course_ it was.

“Hey,” Hajime greeted as he tapped inside his kitchen. He wished Tooru had come a little later, after he’d had a chance to make himself look presentable.

“Good morning,” Tooru smiled, “Want to get food?”

Hajime squinted at Tooru. It seemed like a juxtaposition, Tooru standing here in the daylight. He’d seen him more in the depth of murky darkness, with smoke in the air, yet here he was, sunlight shining into his eyes just like that first time in the train. He still looked pretty, Hajime decided.

“Yeah,” Hajime groaned, “Give me like, two seconds to get dressed.”

“Sure,” Tooru laughed, “If that’s all you need, Hajime.”

They ended up in a commercial coffee house. The hollow, fumbling acoustic guitar track itched at Hajime’s nerves as he took a long sip of his coffee.

“Why did you come to see me?” Hajime asked. He immediately regretted it.

“Do I need a reason?” Tooru asked, laughing lightly, “Or do you just not want to see me?”

“No,” Hajime replied, “I do, it’s just— I’m surprised. We never really...,” he trailed off, “We don’t talk a lot, I guess.” he shrugged.

“Well,” Tooru said, “What do you want to know?”

Hajime frowned. Tooru seemed defensive.

“Do you still see Akaashi?” He asked, “And Kenji, and all your other weird friends? Do you still see them?”

Tooru frowned.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked, eyebrow twitched in that damned way of his.

“Why do you never tell me anything?” Hajime retorted. Tooru stared at him for a long while. His eyes seemed brighter than usual, glowing in the low light.

“I do,” he said.

“No, you don’t.”

Tooru frowned.

“You disappear,” Hajime ground his teeth as he said, “You vanish into the night like a fucking manic-pixie-dream-girl, you vanished into thin air when I met you at Shinjuku for that stupid concert— I didn’t hear from you for years, and suddenly you’re here again. I don’t even know your last name, I don’t even know what fucking position you played on your stupid _volleyball_ team in high-school, I don’t know why you stopped speaking to me for two years and now you’re fine with fucking me, and I don’t know why you never answer my question but expect me to follow you when you show up at my place and click your fingers like I’m a fucking dog!”

Tooru stared at him.

Very quietly, he said, “Setter.”

Hajime exhaled. His thoughts were derailed.

“What?”

“I was a setter,” Tooru said, “In high-school.”

Hajime swallowed.

“I don’t play anymore because I fucked up my knee and I can’t play professionally, so what’s the point. I quit before my senior year of high-school, okay?” Tooru’s shoulders were shaking, “Does that make you feel better about yourself?”

Hajime licked his lips.

“Yeah,” He said, “Yeah, I— uh, thanks. Thanks for telling me,”

Tooru sat back, saying nothing. He seemed angry.

Hajime decided not to say anything after that. Tooru’s eyes seemed to snarl.

Hajime didn’t mention Tooru’s secretiveness for a while after that, the air of mystery around Tooru continued to thin, slowly, and that was alright. Hajime was worried that as soon as he realised Tooru was just an ordinary, normal guy, that he’d leave Hajime to settle down with someone else, maybe Akaashi, maybe some girl he’d get married to, or move away, or leave on an exchange year. He could do anything he wanted to, so why would he stay here with Hajime? Tooru had the whole world in his hands, and Hajime was sure he did not want to listen to empty promises made by Hajime about giving him something he already owned.

He eventually saw him again. Hajime was worried that after they’d said their goodbyes in the commercial coffee shop that it would all end, that it’d be over— that Tooru realised he wanted more, and that he’d understood that Hajime couldn’t give anymore that he had. He’d laid out all his cards in front of Tooru, bared his soul open— he’d seen his room, trailed his fingers across Hajime’s bookcase and laughed at the dust that collected, he’d eyed Hajime’s half-assed DVD collected and commented that they should watch _Alien vs. Predator_ together, since it was Tooru’s favourite film, along with some pretentious underground films about the ocean and complex metaphors and existentialism.

Hajime was worried that Tooru would evaporate into thin air once more as he stared at him for a long while, but after he’d blinked, once, twice, he was still here. Tooru shuffled his weight around on his feet before stuffing his hands in the pockets of his black parka and smiling hollowly up at Hajime.

“See you around, Hajime,” he said, and left, just like that time on the train.

Hajime kept his eyes fixated on Tooru’s slim back as he walked towards campus again, hitting a pedestrian once, and apologising profoundly. He didn’t disappear into the darkness, this time.

Hajime sighed, and turned around, too, shoulders slouched, making his way back to his apartment.

For the first time, he didn’t feel like learning about astrophysics and astronomy. He skipped his favourite lecture to scrap his apartment key into the keyhole and push open the door, witnessing Tobio desperately trying to ease himself away from Shouyo, both lying on the sofa, hands underneath his shirt and tracing his rips as Shouyo laughed, lightly, and Tobio smiled, awkwardly, at Hajime. Shouyo shot up, too, and waved, forcedly smiling a little at Hajime.

 “Fuck it,” Hajime sighed, “Do whatever you want. I don’t care. I’ll be in my room watching something,” he turned around, and reached out towards the door of his room, “Just clean up afterwards, yeah?” he told them and slammed the door.

Inside, he closed his eyes. His heart was pounding, ringing in his ears. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

He thought about texting Tooru.

He didn’t.

He punched his wall in anger.

 

He didn’t sleep well that night, and the next morning, it showed, as he crawled to university in the morning rush hour. He bought coffee from the vending machine downstairs by the lecture halls of the law faculty. It shouldn’t have surprised him that he saw, out of the corner of his eye Tooru, laden down with books and paper and notepads and pens, and alone. He wore glasses.

“ _Shit_ ,” Hajime hissed against the vending machine, leaning onto it with his elbows and forearms.

Tooru stopped walking and stood next to him.

“Hi,” he said, “Want to go see a film?”

His voice was rough and raw and serious. It was a simple request, and yet it was so unlike Tooru; it was ordinary and domestic and everything Hajime had never associated with Tooru. It was normal.

“Sure,” Hajime said, and proceeded to ask him the possibly worst thing he could have said, “Do you not have someone else to go with?”

Tooru adjusted his glasses.

“No,” he said, coldly, “I wouldn’t be asking you if I already had someone else to go with. I want to go with _you_ , alright?”

Hajime nodded, slowly. The vending machine whirred. He took his coffee cup from it.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” Hajime remarked.

“Yeah, well,” Tooru said, “My eyes were irritated yesterday.”

_Were you crying?_

“They’re cute.” Hajime said lowly, and brought his cup up to his mouth to take a sip.

“You probably don’t want to—”

The coffee scalded his tongue. Hajime retracted in annoyance.

“Yeah,” Tooru continued, “It— It does that.”

He adjusted his glasses again.

_Damn it._

Hajime sighed and threw the cup in the bin.

“So, how about that film, huh?” he asked, and Tooru nodded, stuffing his books and paper and notepads and pens in his backpack, and led him to the nearby cinema. It was cheap and small, and always a little dusty.

“Do you care what we see?” Tooru asked, and Hajime shrugged. Tooru picked an action flick, with a lot of explosions and a blond American man in the main role, with cheesy, memorable lines. It seemed like the polar opposite of films Tooru enjoyed, though, in different circumstances, Hajime would have loved it, but the questions ever since boys stopped being gross— _Is this a date? Am I doing this right? Does he want me to hold his hand? Does he expect me to kiss him?_ — burnt sour in the back of his throat, the feeling only increasing and growing hot as Tooru leant over to him, and whispered in his ear, “Do you think he’s hot, Hajime?”

Hajime felt a little ill.

“I think so,” Tooru continued, “I’d fuck him.” he hissed lowly.

The words roared in Hajime’s ears. He glanced sideways through the darkness to see Tooru staring back at him with those eyes, dark and reflective and glossed over with hot desire.

Hajime reached out, grabbing Tooru’s neck, hard, he hoped it would bruise, and pulled Tooru towards him, smashing his lips against his.

Tooru squeaked, in surprise or perhaps protest. His hands fisted in Hajime’s shirt, pulling him down and forcing them to sink down in their seats, out of sight.

Tooru groaned, and Hajime prayed to whatever God existed above him that no one would notice.

“Hey,” Hajime hushed, “Come on.”

He tugged Tooru up on his feet and stumbled down the stairs, out of the disorientating light of the foyer of the cinema, and shoved him inside the men’s toilets. It was empty. They were alone.

“Fuck,” Hajime growled, low and feral, and pushed Tooru into a cubicle, locking the door as Tooru clung to him. Hajime trailed his lips over Hajime’s mouth, down his jaw and chin, surprisingly tender. Hajime tightened his grip on Tooru’s shoulder and waist and slammed him hard against the wall. Tooru groped at Hajime’s belt, pulling his jeans down to his knees.

“Tooru,” he breathed, whispering it into his shoulder as though it were a mantra, as though he were a dying man, praying for salvation on the marble altar of a cold church, “Tooru— _Tooru_.”

Tooru groaned, and scratched along the grooves of Hajime’s chest and abdomen, down to his groin, before hastily pulling down his own jeans and wrapping his legs around Hajime’s thighs. Hajime lifted him up against the wall, pushing close to him, as close as they could be, his hands and palms pressing against the smooth and pale skin of Tooru’s legs. Tooru made a broken, choking noise, as though he were a drowning man, and Hajime shoved up against him, as hard as he could, before in a hot, dizzying rush, he could only see the stars in his eyes and hear his hushed voice chant Tooru’s name, mixed with Tooru groaning, shouting his own, nails digging into Hajime’s skin.

Tooru was leaning against the wall, panting. His glasses were crocked and his neck was long, sleek like a slate of marble.

“You almost dropped me,” He said, hands remaining on Hajime’s shoulders and dancing along the span of his skin. They felt like fire, burning and imprinting him.

Hajime licked his lips.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” Tooru said, quietly, and leaned close towards him. Hajime could feel his breath on him, and his hands roamed Tooru’s legs once more, trailing upwards to trace the indents of his spine, long and elegant and covered in a few moles, dark against his pale skin.

Tooru leaned forward and kiss the corner of Hajime’s mouth, gentle, and Hajime froze, let Tooru do what he wanted, he always did, and let Tooru map out Hajime’s face, neck, jaw, in small, light flurries of kisses.

It was tender. It almost made Hajime forget they were in a toilet cubicle.

“It’s rude to leave a film before it’s finished,” Tooru said later, pulling up his trousers.

“Who to?” Hajime asked.

“To the filmmakers.”

“How do they know?”

“They just do,” Tooru answered plainly.

“How?”

“They do!” Tooru smiled lopsidedly, and Hajime felt his heart stop completely.

He was probably completely dead, at this point, Tooru had killed him with that dumb, lopsided grin. The odds were 30 to 70, increasing in Tooru’s favour by the second.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” Tooru said when they parted, cleaned up as best as they could. His hair was mussed. Tooru leaned forward, then, hand on either side of Hajime’s face, and kissed him, softly, so gently it ached, with such fragility as though he thought Hajime were asleep.

Hajime exhaled shakily as Tooru broke away, and he nodded weakly at him.

 

He spent the next days alone, and a little miserable. Tobio noticed, but he didn’t say anything, he only mentioned it when he saw Hajime trod out of his bedroom early in the morning to heat up last night’s instant ramen. Hajime didn’t want to explain, he didn’t want to spread out the events for Tobio so that he could understand why he wanted to spend the rest of his life with a person who had treated him in such a strange way, with a person who was such a fucking cliché, and why this person made Hajime’s heart ache so.

Hajime tried to quantify the events with Tooru, and why, in the darkest and quietest hours of the night, he wanted to reach out and touch him, feel the smooth expanse of his skin underneath his rough fingers. He tried to explain the ache in his chest, yet he couldn’t; it didn’t really make sense. It was mystery, sprawling yet delicate, like Tooru himself.

 He wanted to know Tooru’s greatest fears and vulnerabilities. He wanted all of him, to trace his shape and smell his neck. Maybe it was infatuation, perhaps he was in love with the idea of Tooru, the alien, genius, impossible boy with his head in the clouds and cool music and friends.

Eventually, it all came to a head a week after the incident at the cinema. Tobio had left to a lecture, slamming the door with a shout telling him not to wait for dinner, he’d be at Shouyo’s, of course.

Hajime was perched in his room doing some equations. He stood, stretched, and walked into the kitchen, feet patting on the cold floor.

Tooru sat at the table.

Hajime stopped.

“Oh,” he said, sighing, “Hey.”

Tooru looked up and grinned.

“Hi,” he said, voice scratching like some old record, “You’re flatmate should really lock the door, it’s unsafe. Tobio, yeah?”

Hajime frowned.

“How’d you know?” He asked.

“I’m his TA.” Tooru answered, shrugging, delicately, somehow.

“I never— I didn’t know you were a TA.”

“Well,” Tooru sighed, “Don’t forget, there’re a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

 “I guess,” Hajime replied. It was silent.

“So what did you come to see me about?” Hajime asked.

Tooru flinched a little in his seat.

“I— I have tickets,” he blurted, “Arctic Monkeys,” he said, hastily, “You know them, right? Akaashi got them—”

Hajime sighed. He sat down in front of Tooru.

“Tooru..,” he said slowly, “Do you... Do you really have them?”

Tooru bit the side of his thumb.

“I— I don’t really,” he laughed, hollowly, “I made it up.”

He shifted in his seat, then stood, moving to the other side of the kitchen. Hajime’s eyes followed him. He seemed uncomfortable. His shoulder’s shifted, and fingers twitched. He exhaled, shakily.

“Did you— did you do that because you wanted to have a reason to see me?” Hajime asked, nervously.

Tooru stared at the unwashed bowls in the sink.

“I wanted,” he said slowly, calculatedly, “To give _you_ a reason to see _me_.”

Hajime felt his throat constrict.

“Why did you think I needed a reason?” he asked weakly.

Tooru’s jaw was clenched.

“They always do,” he stated bitterly.

“What?” Hajime asked exasperatedly.

Tooru laughed weakly, nervously, his eyes widening terrifyingly.

“Tooru,” Hajime said slowly, “Are you okay?”

Tooru’s eyes were glossy, and his shoulders shook.

“I’m fine!” he said shrilly, “I’m fine! I—”

He looked around him, and he seemed small, and lost. He didn’t seem like the Tooru Hajime knew when they were younger, when he carefree, and infinitely wise, a genius in his own right, a raging avenger of adolescence, and somehow young yet far older than he should be at his age.

Instead, he seemed human, and vulnerable, and small, and somewhat unstable.

Hajime didn’t want him to ever leave. He wanted to keep him close, by his side, because he knew that if he let Tooru leave, he’d never see him again.

“Tooru,” Hajime said, “ _Tooru_.” he repeated.

Tooru exhaled a shaky breath.

“Please,” Tooru spoke brokenly. He looked at Hajime. It felt like it was the first time they truly saw each other; eyes wide, mouths open. Tooru made a choked sound, and grabbed Hajime’s shoulders, pressing himself against him, hard.

“It’s okay,” Hajime said, bewildered, “It’s okay.” he told him, though it wasn’t, not really.

He felt like he’d wandered too far in a swimming pool, so far that he’d hadn’t noticed that he’d reached the deep end, and he was slipping, gasping for air, one last breath before—

He ended up taking Tooru to bed.

The sun was shining now, outside, and Hajime watched Tooru, who was typing on his phone, running a hand through his hair. Tooru laughed, a little lowly, and smiled lopsidedly as he showed Hajime a silly photograph of his high-school friend’s dog.

Hajime liked that laugh. Hajime liked Tooru.

The realisation hitting him like a crashing wave, and suddenly, he was drowning again, drowning Tooru’s eyes, and smile, and touch, and—

“Don’t go.” Hajime said, suddenly.                

Tooru stopped laughing. He froze. He dropped his phone to the floor and leaned over, grabbing Hajime’s face and pulling him down to kiss him.

“Please don’t go.” Hajime repeated, quietly, as they pulled apart, resting his forehead against Tooru’s.

Outside, a van drove past, blasting an obnoxious and auto-tuned song, falling back into nothingness far too soon.

“Do you want me to stay?” Tooru asked, a little uncertain.

“More than anything,” Hajime replied desperately. He sounded pathetic.

Tooru nodded, slowly, and retracted his hands, placing them in his lap.

“Alright,” he said, “You— you have to make me breakfast, though, Hajime.” he teased, and it felt comforting and familiar.

“Sure,” Hajime heard himself agree, “What do you want?”

Tooru smiled, slowly, and then all at once.

 

**ACT XI**

When Tobio got home that evening, Hajime was quiet. It started to rain.

“Where is he?” Tobio asked.

“Who?”

“Your _friend_ ,” Tobio said, saying the word in a strange way.

“Don’t know,” he said, honestly.

“Well,” Tobio said, toeing off his shoes, “You’re a real miserable douche when he’s not around.”

Hajime shrugged. “I’m a miserable douche when he is.”

Tobio was quiet, for a moment.

“Why do you hang out with him, then?” he asked.

“He makes me happy.” Hajime answered, a little too quickly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“So, you love him?” Tobio asked.

Hajime froze.

The stars had aligned to a constellation.

There was silence for an awful, exhausting moment, as Tobio stepped towards the kitchen and sniffed. Hajime did not know how to respond; Tobio initiating a tiny, pathetic heart-to-heart conversation would only lead to innate confusion. Hajime did not quite know where he’s leading it, maybe Tobio didn’t either, but those thoughts came to a halt, an aching, screeching halt as Hajime realised what a stinking load of shit his life was. He probably _did_ love Tooru; it made sense, it felt right. He wanted nothing more than Tooru.

His face must have appeared pitiful and pained. Tobio turned his head to muster Hajime as he remained frozen.

Hajime dug the palms of his hands into his eyes, and he saw white, then stars, and then that lopsided smile and hushed whispers and quiet laughs, thoughts lingering and burning in his mind like great, bright Roman candles, and Hajime welcomes it— he welcomes Tooru burning him up until he is nothing but ash and dust and scattered into the sea, because that’s all that he can do.

It’s not quite right, not quite normal, and entirely impossible, yet, at the same time, it _was_ possible— Hajime could walk up to Tooru and take him out to dinner. Buy him flowers. Treat him right, if Tooru would let him. Hajime would stay by Tooru as long as he’d let him, as long as he didn’t disappear into that illusionary nothingness, that seeping darkness he’d walked away into all those years ago before he’d left Hajime’s life once again. Tooru could do that, easily, once more—

Hajime didn’t want him to.

And that was all he needed to know, wasn’t it?

“I— I don’t know,” Hajime stuttered, eventually, “It’s difficult.”

“Sounds pretty simple,” Tobio said, opening the fridge, “If you like him that much,” he spoke into it, “You probably do.”

Hajime swallowed, and turned his head to stare at Tobio. His hands were sweaty and shaking against his thighs.

“Did you tell him?” Tobio said, pulling out a carton of milk.

“What?”

“Did you tell him that you love him?”

Tobio took a large gulp from the carton.

“No,” Hajime said, “I don’t— I can’t— it’s difficult, okay?”

Tooru searched his expression for the certainty and concrete, steady emotion it always carried. This time, it wasn’t there. Hajime was blank, empty, and uncertain, wiped clean by Tooru, and his dumb, dark, alien eyes.

“Write him a letter, then, or something.” Tobio said, confused.

Hajime looked at him dumbly.

“Write him a letter,” Tobio repeated, “Just,” he threw the empty carton in the bin, “Write him a letter. Tell him how you feel— you don’t have to promise him a forever.”

Hajime swallowed. He wanted to promise him a forever, though— he wanted to promise him the world. Tooru wouldn’t let him, though— he’d say, ‘ _Silly Hajime, how could I accept something I already own?’_ , and it was true, Tooru did, in a way, he controlled everything in his path, captivated them with false maturity and skilled confidence.

Hajime couldn’t move for a while. He felt sick. That night, he woke up every hour or so, shaking, and completely awake. In total darkness, he reached out in his bed, seeking out silky hair under his finger tips, far too soft for his rough, callused fingers to deserve. Hajime bit his lip, running his hand across his elbows, and stood, quickly, almost stumbling, as he walked towards his desk, bare feet patting against the linoleum floor.

With a click, he turned on the small light on his desk, pushing aside his class notes and textbooks.

He grabbed a pen.

 He wrote.

 

**ACT X**

Two days later, he’d forgotten all about it, but it helped; it cleared up some things, it highlighted and bolded Hajime’s thoughts for Tooru, and it made them easier to hide from him, ultimately. The letter was burning a hole, a large, 17 pages heavy hole in his drawer, stashed in between the trashy porn magazine a high-school friend of his had gotten him for his 18th birthday, a misplaced joke. Hajime accidentally came out to all his closest friends that same night.

Hajime had met up in a small bar Thursday evening, and it was nice, the bar was small and intimate with bare floorboards and comfortable seats, convenient to slouch down in. Tooru had arrived a little late, as always, and when Hajime saw him walking along the street towards him, hands deep inside his pockets and hunched, he was sure it was an apparition, an illusion, merely someone who looked like Tooru, so much like him, but then Tooru stopped before him, and nodded at Hajime.

He seemed pissed.

The sky was dark grey, that evening.

“Rough day?” Hajime asked once they’d sat down.

“You could say that,” Tooru sighed, “Pretty shitty day, actually. I fucked up, again.”

Hajime frowned, and looked at Tooru, urging him to continue.

“I don’t think I’m—” Tooru traced the rim of his glass with his finger, “I don’t think I’m good enough, you know?” Tooru tilted his head a little. Hajime graced him with a blank stare.

“Good enough for what?”

Tooru shrugged.

“Do you think I’m smart?” Tooru asked.

Hajime closed his eyes and inhaled.

“Tooru,” he said, “You’re being ridiculous—”

“Do you?” Tooru raised his chin a little, and looked at Hajime, really looked at him. Hajime licked his lips.

“How deep is the ocean?” he asked after a pause.

“What?” Tooru snapped.

“You know the answer,” said Hajime, “Are you gonna tell me?”

Tooru shuffled in his seat, mumbling an answer.

“Sorry,” Hajime grinned, “I couldn’t hear that.” He leaned forward towards him, and Tooru locked eyes with him, intensely, stare fuelling the nervous pit of fire which had been ignited the moment he felt Tooru’s legs lean against his own underneath the table.

“The ocean is six miles deep.” he answered slowly, eyes trailing down to Hajime’s lips, then up towards his eyes once more, meeting his stare with profound confrontation, as though he could see right through him.

Hajime swallowed thickly.

“Good,” he said.

He wasn’t sure why he’d said that, but the grin Tooru gave him was the only reason he needed, in the hindsight.

“Come on,” Hajime said, taking out his wallet and placing a bill on the table, “I know what you need.”

He never did state what it was that Tooru needed, the true answer was too complicated, but Tooru nodded and grabbed his jacket and followed him.

“You know,” Hajime said as they walked down the street, illuminated by the artificial, bright yellow lights of shop-signs and streetlamps, “When you and Akaashi— I hated giraffes, for a while.”

Tooru snorted.

“Giraffes?”

“Yeah,” Hajime continued, and he felt Tooru’s shoulder and arm and hand touch his, lightly, “I thought he had a long neck, so for a while, I really hated giraffes; just thinking about them made me angry.”

For the second time that evening, Hajime doubted his words, and strangely enough, Hajime heard the ripples of Tooru’s laughter again, edging towards him slowly, and then all at once. He even snorted a little, and Hajime felt incredibly privileged to witness Tooru’s perfect imperfections. He was always so poised, so faceted and complicated, self-assured, yet in this quiet moment in the empty street, with the train roaring behind them, Hajime only saw a normal, ordinary guy, no special, mystic personality with impossibilities and alluring obscurity. He was ordinary, perfectly so.

“Hey,” Tooru said, after a quiet moment, “Do you think I’m mental?”

Hajime stopped walking.

“What?” he asked.

“Tetsuro told me,” Tooru continued, “That one time, with the concert, all those years ago, and I didn’t really say anything about it because I thought that you thought I was crazy,” he laughed a little, “Well, _am_ crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Hajime said, frowning, “and even if you are, I don’t care— I really don’t care,” he inhaled a shaky breath, trying to gather confidence, “I like you,” he confessed, staring at the street in front of them, “Don’t you get that?” he asked him.

Tooru stared at him, and the lights reflected in his eyes. Hajime swallowed. He felt his throat constrict.

“Okay,” he said, and Hajime turned his head to meet his gaze, “Sure.”

He was silent for a moment before speaking once more.

“My mother was worried I mental problems,” he said, “I found a book about teenage paranoid delusions in her bedroom when I was in high-school.”

“So,” Hajime said, forcedly and strained, “Did you?”

_Do you?_

Tooru shrugged.

“I dunno,” he paused. “I used to— _God_ , this is ridiculous,” he laughed, hoarsely, tilting his head back as though he wanted to drink the night sky— he probably could have, Tooru could do anything he wanted to, Hajime believed— and said, “I used to picture myself in an entirely disconnected reality. I used to imagine how people would react to my death— the teacher’s quavering voice as he made the announcement, the shocked faces of my classmates, my locker bedeck with flowers, the stillness of the school corridors, local news analysis, the stoicism of my parents, candlelit vigils— and, finally, my glorious resurrection.”

Hajime stared at him for a long while.

Tooru turned his head and grinned.

“I was kinda fucked up in high-school,” Tooru admitted, “That’s just want ingredient in the horrifying cocktail that was my life. Though, Hajime,” he sang the three syllables as always, “I’m not as fucked up anymore, alright? You don’t have to worry.”

Hajime wanted nothing more than to hold him at that point, because Tooru looked so inexplicitly sad— Hajime wanted to hold him, no more, no less but to hold him, grab his hand and look him in the eyes and somehow make him believe that he was incredibly, truly incredible, and that everything would be alright and work out in the end.

“Okay,” was all Hajime said, and all he could say, “If that’s what you want.”

Tooru hummed in agreement.

“Thanks, Hajime,” Tooru said, and linked his finger’s with Hajime’s.

Hajime nodded, and sore to himself he wasn’t breathing anymore. He was deep, far too deep in the depths of the ocean which was Tooru.

“Anytime,” he answered, and he meant it.

 

He didn’t think his promise would come in use two days later, on Saturday morning. It was still dark outside when Tobio pulled his duvet away from him again.

“God,” Tobio hissed, “Tell your dumb friend not to come knocking on our door so _fucking_ _early_. It’s four in the fucking morning!”

The light in the kitchen was on, and it blinded Hajime, for moment. Unlike the first time he was surprised by Tooru sitting at his kitchen table, he didn’t feel the urge to crawl into his skin and let the floor swallow him whole. Instead, he smiled, and rubbed at his eyes, then scratched his stomach through his pyjama shirt, his old volleyball club t-shirt, a little too small.

Tooru smiled, too.

“Sorry,” he said, at long last, “I know it’s late.”

“Early, really,” Hajime considered, “You want some coffee, or tea or something?” he asked, walking towards the coffeemaker on the counter.

“Yeah,” Tooru sighed, “Coffee sounds nice.”

Hajime wanted to reach out and touch him, though Tooru looked like a Jenga tower leaning a little to one side, ready to collapse.

“Sorry,” he said again, “I didn’t— I didn’t want to wake you and Tobio and—”

“It’s fine,” Hajime yawned, “I mean, I told you so. I told you that I’d still want to see you, even at four in the morning.”

He immediately clamped his teeth down on his tongue after he realised what he’d said, and the implications of it lay helplessly in the thick air between Tooru and him, waiting for one of them to reach up, just a little, and grab it, twisting it just enough to fit into place.

“Really?” Tooru said, gently.

“I guess,” Hajime said, face and neck red, “Sure, and besides— I needed revenge for Tobio and his boyfriend. They’ve been a little naughty on the sofa, leaving behind some weird-ass stains there,” he snorted, and Tooru laughed, lightly.

“Though,” Hajime continued, pouring the coffee into two mugs, one with a lot of milk and sugar, just the way Tooru liked it, he knew that by now, and the other strong and dark, Hajime’s preference, “If you’re only fishing for compliments, I’ll punch you.”

Tooru smiled, showing his canines, bright and white and lips stretched little lopsidedly.

“I’m not,” Tooru said, “If I wanted to do that, I’d just invite you over. You’re sweet in the morning, Hajime,” Tooru sang and tilted his head, hand placed neatly underneath his chin and above the just of his collarbone, bared by that dumb, overly large sweater he was wearing.

Hajime frowned, as though he were personally offended by the effect Tooru had on him, and he was, in a sense. Tooru had him wrapped around his finger.

“Tobio almost didn’t want to let me in,” Tooru laughed, “I was standing out there knocking for nearly ten minutes, your neighbours probably though I was a random drunk,” he took a sip of his coffee, “When he opened the door, he said ‘Are you the guy my stupid roommate’s been mooning over?’,” Tooru looked up at Hajime, hopeful and afraid, “Are— am I?”

Hajime never thought he’d see him look this terrified and vulnerable.

“Yeah,” Hajime said, chest and throat constricting, “There’s no one else. Dumb, huh?”

Tooru’s lips twitched, the corners, and they curled into a smile, lopsidedly.

Tooru was beautiful when he was happy, Hajime thought.

“Yeah,” Tooru said, “Pretty dumb.”

Hajime looked at him. Strangely, he felt as though he hadn’t seen him in a very long time, and it hit him that it felt odd to see Tooru here in the bright light of his kitchen. It was domestic and casual, and utterly devoid of the mystique and magic that surrounded him in the cigarette smoke filled nights with Tetsuro and Akaashi, or in the darkness of the cinema. It was normal, and familiar, and simply _nice_.

They could do it, Hajime thought, they really could. Hajime could take Tooru out for dinner. They would sit together, hold hands. He felt warm at the thought. It could happen.

“What is it?” Tooru asked.

Hajime blinked, and realised he was sitting here like a fucking love-struck _creep_ , staring at Tooru for what seemed like millennia.

“Nothing,” Hajime shrugged, “I’m just— I’m glad you’re here.”

Tooru looked at him for a while.

“Aren’t you going to ask _why_ I’m here?” Tooru asked, hesitantly.

Hajime bit his lip a little.

“If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.” he eventually said.

He didn’t want to know, truth be told, for Hajime was born into the world with a sense that everything would work out in the end, and with the gift of innate apathy. He was a wallflower, one with strong moral principles, but still a wallflower; he did not want to be involved in unnecessary drama, or in things he could not change.

Hajime was scared of the truth, too; scared that Tooru would tell him something that would blossom into a reason for him to leave Hajime, some old problem that trailed behind him, preyed on him in the wake of the dust of his past.

Tooru swallowed, and took another sip of his coffee, eyes fixated to the side.

“Okay,” he answered after a while, “Thanks, Hajime.”

“No problem,” Hajime answered, and he meant it. Tooru smiled shyly back at him.

“Let’s go to bed,” Tooru said, standing and pushing his chair back, “I want to sleep next to you.”

In the houses and flats of the city, lights were turning on in bedrooms and bathrooms, and the first trains rattled into darkness, it would likely rain later, yet here, in a dingy, student apartment, Hajime felt as though he had tasted bitter victory, and seen heaven in Tooru’s eyes as he froze, and then nodded.

“This is the moment where you leave and come with me,” Tooru said, laughing.

Hajime blinked at the sound of his breathless giggle and dumbly realised he was still sitting.

“Is it?” He said.

“Yeah, are you coming?” Tooru said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hajime said lowly, and took his hand, shaking a little and praying Tooru didn’t notice, leading him into his bedroom.

Later, they would head downstairs and buy milk, together, so that Tobio could have his dumb cereal in the morning and not murder Hajime in his sleep, Tooru said, because that would be a shame. Hajime didn’t know whether that was a compliment, but he blushed anyway and took it as such.

Tooru had seeped into all crevices of Hajime’s life, at this point, and it was irreplaceable.

 

They met more often, after that incident, Tooru would sometimes wait for Hajime after class, and Hajime did the same. They’d text, too, about normal things and they’d do normal things together more often.

It was strange. Hajime felt as though they had been lover, fuck-buddies for the entire three-quarter of a year since he’d spotted Tooru on that train, but only _friends_ with benefits until very recently. He’d stay over at Tooru’s, watch films on his laptop, and study with him, asking him about case studies and he’d always know the answer, he was good like that. Tooru, in turn, would come over, too, and rest his head on Hajime’s shoulder as Hajime solved equation after equation or scrambled to finish his lap report in time.

It was nice, and it made Hajime’s heart be all sorts of nervous fluttering every time Tooru was around him, or even if Tooru was mentions, vaguely, like when Tobio came home and complained about his TA, and Hajime shook his head and bit away a smile at the thought of Tooru, childish as he was, trying to be mature with Tobio of all people. He probably relentlessly teased him. Tobio was delightfully easy to tease. It was a key component in his and Hajime’s friendship.

Hajime felt as though he were standing in the eye of the storm, and it was hard to resist, he still wanted it all; he saw swimming pools and living rooms and a little house on a hill, children’s names and quiet nights. His hopes were high, and he had to keep them small. Tooru was still Tooru, after all, even after they passed the one-year mark of their relations, since that time they’d met in the train the third time.

Tooru remembered it. He’d told Hajime that, with a smile, as he scratched along Hajime’s arms and bare chest, down his abdomen. Hajime ran his hands along Tooru’s sides and bit his neck, tips trailing and lingering as Tooru moaned, quietly, sinking down into his mattress.

“Hey,” Tooru said, “You’re a tease, Hajime.”

“Yeah,” Hajime said, “What’re you gonna do about it?”

Tooru smiled, and ran a hand through Hajime’s hair.

“Nothing,” he said, quietly, “Nothing at all. You’ll ruin me— _ah_ — and I love it,”

Hajime frowned. The tone of Tooru’s voice was pained, choking on the syllables, and it felt gravitating, as though Tooru had given it a higher meaning, expecting Hajime to catch it and expand on it, respond in a certain way. Hajime didn’t know how to reply, so he pulled down Tooru’s boxers and kneeled in front of him.

 Tooru was beautiful, he thought, and he was eternally grateful to his eleven year old self for sitting next to that weird boy with his smooth hair and alien eyes because it all led him to this.

He felt Tooru shift impatiently, and Hajime licked his lips, trailing them downwards until he felt the hot skin of Tooru’s hipbone, down to his groin and along his thighs. Hajime moved his hands, pressing his palms and fingers anywhere he could reach, drawing mindless patterns as Tooru groaned, then moaned dirtily as Hajime stretched his lips over the red, shining head of Tooru’s cock, just a little, before Hajime wrapped his hands around Tooru’s shaft and stroked him, hard and fast, thumb running over the tip just the way he knew Tooru liked it.

“Ah,” Tooru sighed, “Jesus— Shit, Hajime.”

Hajime was embarrassingly hard. If Tooru noticed, he didn’t care, he merely bucked forwards. It didn’t take him long. Tooru let a breathless gasp and his spine bowed backwards, tense, thighs shaking as he came. His chest moved up and down, rapidly

Tooru remained boneless and shaken for a long while before shoving Hajime’s shoulder with his hands, then letting them rest on top of Hajime’s chest, then around his neck. His fingers made Hajime’s skin burn. He was embarrassingly hard.

Hajime titled his head back in annoyance, head hitting the wall, and Tooru laughed, breathlessly, climbing into his lap. Tooru sat still there for a moment, staring at Hajime with a light smile on his lips.

“Hajime,” Tooru said, quietly, letting his fingers wander down Hajime’s chest, “Was I your first, actually?”

Hajime sucked in a breath as Tooru wrapped his fingers around his cock, rested his head on his shoulder, and looked up at him, innocently. Hajime grit his teeth, and tried to steady his voice as Tooru moved his hand, painfully slowly.

“No,” he said, “You weren’t.”

“Was I your first at anything at all?” Tooru asked with a playful, artificial lilt to his voice that tried to masked his insecurities and vulnerabilities. Hajime knew it well.

Hajime bit his lip.

_You were my first love— my first and favourite, and I want you to be my only one, too._

“Not really,” Hajime sighed as Tooru licked at his jaw, biting and marking him, “I never— I mean, I never— _fuck_ ,” he moaned as Tooru thumbed his tip. He dug his nails into Tooru’s waist.

“Hm?” Tooru questioned, “What did you never do?”

“I never, you know...,” Hajime trailed off, eyes squeezing shut and breath heaving.

“Huh?”

Hajime groaned.

“God— I’ve never, you know, done that thing that I’ve— that I just did to you,” he finished, and Tooru stared at him blankly.

“What?” Tooru asked.

“No one’s lips,” Hajime said, grabbing Tooru’s head firmly in his hands and turning it to face his own. Tooru’s mouth opened a little, and Hajime continued, “Have ever touched my dick.”

Tooru didn’t blink, and was silent for a long while. He licked his lips, then, and grinned wickedly.

“No!” Tooru gasped.

Hajime admitted defeat.

“No way! Oh my _God_ — you know, you’re really good at oral for that you’ve never gotten any.”

Hajime frowned.

“Thanks,” he said blankly.

It was silent, briefly.

“Hey,” Tooru said after a moment, “Can I take your blowjob virginity?”

Hajime stared at him dumbly.

“Please? You won’t even feel bad if you don’t last long,” he continued, “I only lasted 10 seconds before.”

Hajime pretended to consider rejecting Tooru.

“Fine,” Hajime sighed, “I guess.”

Tooru grinned at him.

“Thank you, Hajime,” he said, kneeling in front of him, “Thank you for letting me explore your perfect body.”

_Wrong— I should say that instead._

Hajime groaned loudly as Tooru kissed along his shaft.

“God— _Tooru_ ,” he moaned as Tooru breathed on him for a moment, then pushed forward, engulfing Hajime in white hot heat, “Yeah— _Fuck_ ,” he felt ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop the horrendous words spilling out of his mouth and erotic noises tumbling from his tongue. Seeing Tooru in front of him like this, doing something only for him, with no benefit for himself, really, selflessly and with full attention to Hajime and Hajime only was killing him, truthfully.

“Ah,” Tooru said, pulling away with a loud pop, “You should count.”

Hajime felt his chest rise and fall quickly. His pulse was faster than ever before at the sight of Tooru’s lips, slick with spit and full, shine with his own precum.

“Count?” Hajime wheezed.

“Yeah,” Tooru said plainly, “I want to see how long you’ll last.”

Hajime admitted defeat once more.

He was painfully hard.

At this point, Tooru could probably ask him to do a back-flip out of the window and he’d try.

Tooru sensed his unspoken agreement and drew his head back down, tongue trailing along the side of Hajime’s shaft as he pushed his palms into the tan and firm muscle of Hajime’s shaking thighs.

“One—”

Tooru let his tongue lie flat against Hajime’s cock, hot and heavy.

“Two—”

His tongue teased along the head.

“Three—”

Tooru’s lips were tight and hot around him, catching around the head as he moved up and down, slow at first, then—

“Four—”

— _faster_ , and when Tooru looked up at Hajime with fierce determinacy in those glossed over dark eyes of his, Hajime swore he wasn’t breathing, the only thing he could do was—

“ _Five—_ ”

— tangle his fingers in Tooru’s smooth locks, pulling a little forcefully as Hajime let out a strangled, raw moan when Tooru—

“ _Fuck,_ Tooru— Six—”

— pressed his tongue against the underside of his cock, hollowing his cheeks and a moan spilled out from Tooru’s swollen lips, too.

“Ah, _Tooru_ — Jesus _fucking_ —”

Everything was white, and the only noise in Tooru’s bedroom was his own panting as he shook viciously against Tooru, grasping onto his shoulders and pulling his hair, roughly.

The dark arousal in Tooru’s eyes as he stared up towards Hajime really did it for him, in the end.

Hajime could see a trickle of come smeared against Tooru’s lips as he tried to regain control of his breathing. Tooru swallowed— licking his lips, putting on a show for Hajime, and _God_ , did it work— still shaking, and then lay next to him, wiping any remainders away with the back of his hand. He sighed, happily, and it sounded pure and innocent. Hajime swallowed thickly and wrapped his arms around Tooru.

“How long did I—”

“Seven seconds,” Tooru answered, “Not too bad, actually.”

Hajime hummed in agreement.

“We can practice later again,” Tooru said, after a while, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” he replied, and that was that.

Later, Tooru would stir awake in his arms as Hajime watched him, silently, and held his hands, delicately and so gently it positively ached.

“You know,” Tooru whispered, so quietly that Hajime was sure that if he wasn’t pressed so close to Tooru he wouldn’t have heard it, “I’m glad you were my first.”

 

The words Tooru had uttered and the meaning they carried were a heavy burden on Hajime for the next couple of weeks. Things carried on as usual, they hung out a lot more, but Hajime felt undeserving of being Tooru’s first, of his clumsy self being the one to take Tooru’s virginity, if that was truly what Tooru had meant.

He didn’t believe it for a long while, but then again, why would Tooru lie to him about something like that?

It seemed unreal, and the thought of Tooru being a pure, imaginary, fantastical being, with his web of lies controlling everyone who fell under his spell, brought him right back to all those months and years ago, back when they were younger and Hajime had clung onto the idea of Tooru, though not so much Tooru himself.

He wasn’t like that now, and neither was Tooru. They had built up a sense of trust. They shared things now. Hajime was even considering asking Tooru to move in with him if Tobio wanted to live with Shouyo next year, but the thought was immediately diminished with the crushing reality that they weren’t actually dating. There had never been any declarations or promises of forever between them. Hajime wasn’t even completely sure that Tooru was in this, whatever this was, for the long run.

Maybe he wanted to leave again. He could simply leave Hajime, leave it all behind, disparate into nothingness and walk into the uncertain and ominous darkness of the night once more.

The crescendo of Hajime’s doubts and feelings was reached a month after Tooru’s weak confession, and it began with Tobio, as it always did.

“Where’s your boyfriend gone?” Tobio asked one morning, standing in the early sunlight of the kitchen as Hajime trotted towards him, switching on the coffee maker.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Hajime answered.

Tobio blinked.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked, “Why not? I thought you confessed. Didn’t you write him—”

Hajime shrugged and zoned out after that.

That night, he read through his letter in the late and quiet hours of the night once more, desperately trying to make sense of himself, of Tooru, of anything and everything at once. He’d walked into the kitchen in a flurry, after a particularly haunting dream of the darkness and reaching out into nothingness, thinking that if he could just stretch his arms out far enough and run a little faster he could reach Tooru, hold him and embrace him and ask him to be his, forever.

Hajime had thrown the letter on the kitchen floor with aggravation and hollow desperation, pouring himself another strong drink before falling asleep on the sofa, the one with the mysterious white stains left by Tobio and Shouyo.

The next morning, the 17 single spaced pages, handwritten and tainted with tears, alcohol, and sweat and blood were missing.

Tobio was, too.

Hajime had searched through the apartment manically.

It was still missing.

“Fuck,” he hissed, as in that moment, he realised he had made the fatal mistake of writing Tooru’s address on the envelope in clumsy, scrawling handwriting, brought out by whiskey and half a bottle of horrid wine.

“ _Shit_ ,”

Hajime slammed his front door behind him.

He ran to the train station.

He ran up all six flights of stairs up to Tooru’s apartment door.

He saw Tobio ring the doorbell, twice, then knocking three times.

He couldn’t move. He remained frozen, staring at the figure from the staircase, out of sight.

Eventually, the door creaked open.

“Tobio?” Tooru asked.

He was wearing his glasses, and a sweatshirt he’d stolen from Hajime weeks ago. Hajime hadn’t even noticed it went missing.  

“Yeah,” Tobio replied, “This is from Hajime. He said it’s important.”

He stuck out the letter.

Hajime couldn’t move.

“What is it?” Tooru asked, reaching out and holding it carefully, as though it were incredibly valuable.

“It’s a letter.”

He looked at Tobio pointedly.

“I can see that.” Tooru said.

“It’s a love letter, alright?” Tobio admitted.

“That’s a big love letter.”

“He’s got a big heart.”

Tooru nodded.

_Fuck._

“Thanks,” he said absently, staring down at the envelope and slowly closing the door in Tobio’s face.

Hajime held his breath as Tobio let his head hand low, scowling before turning on his heel and walking down the corridor. As he turned to walk down the stairs, he froze, briefly, staring back at Hajime, and then continuing to walk down each step.

“Hey,” Hajime hissed, pulling at Tobio’s jacket hood, “What the fuck was that?”

Tobio stopped for a moment. He ignored him.

“I said,” Hajime repeated, “What the _fuck_ was that?”

Anger was boiling now, deep and strong.

“I was doing you a favour,” Tobio stated, “You’re both idiots, God— you’re both so dumb. Don’t you realise he’s only staying here because of you?”

Hajime licked his lips.

“What do you mean?”

“What, he didn’t tell you?”

Hajime’s blood drained from his head.

“Tell me what?” he asked.

Tobio turned around, facing him now.

“He got an offer for a paid exchange year to the US, Ivy League school. Harvard— his English is perfect, and he’s just what they’re looking for.” he spoke.

Hajime felt his heart stop.

“What?” he asked, slowly.

“He rejected the offer because of you. What’s he got forcing him to stay? Why else would he _want_ to stay?”

Hajime swallowed, and let go of Tobio’s jacket.

It couldn’t be true—

Hajime remained frozen in Tooru’s staircase long after Tobio had left. Eventually, though, he left the grey building and outside, it was raining, and as Hajime listening to the sound of the train passing by, he thought of Tooru and the way he looked at him with those huge, innocent eyes when he first met him.

The eyes remained in the front of his mind, burning and causing his own to prickle that night. He woke up every hour or so, drenched in sweat and chest heaving, thinking of nothing else but of Tooru and of that stupid letter and of Harvard, of how far away that was— an entire ocean, deep and dark— and of how easy it would be for Tooru to accept it and jump onto a plane and disappear, just like that.

At seven in the morning, Hajime heard Tobio slam the front door, and Hajime thought whether he could afford to miss lecture that day.

_Dear Professor—_

_Please may Hajime be excused from class today._

_His tiny heart is broken._

**ACT XI**

Hajime remained in the darkness of his room, the blinds were drawn, for the next two days. Tobio had whispered the excuse of him having the flu when Shouyo came over and questioned Hajime’s locked door.

Tooru didn’t call, or text, or do anything, really.

Hajime had accepted the fact that he’d left and disappeared into the darkness once more, and that he’d never see him again, perhaps he accepted the offer and gone to Harvard, for a year, or maybe he dropped out or moved to the sea, Hajime knew Tooru loved the ocean, they’d watched one of those hideous nature documentaries about the depth of the ocean multiple times together, when Tooru had texted Hajime whether he wanted to come over to ‘ _Netflix and chill?_ ’, and Hajime had said yes, and later, Tooru lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in Hajime’s face and Hajime said he’d leave Tooru for an anglerfish, and Tooru had laughed and _laughed_ — 

Hajime woke at 5 a.m., lying on the sofa, the one with the mysterious stains, eleven empty beer bottles and cans in front of him, from the sound of insistent knocking, and his doorbell ringing, then both at the same time.

He blinked, once or twice, and then hoisted himself up, shirt sticking to his back, boxers a stained mess.

He heaved open the door, and stared back into dark, wide, alien eyes.

“I was crying earlier,” Tooru said, voice strained, “My eyes are probably red.”

“You look fine,” Hajime spoke.

“Oh,” Tooru trailed his eyes downwards, “Maybe they don’t go red when I cry, then.”

Hajime sighed, and then opened the door wider by a fraction. Tooru remained still.

“This is the part where you come inside,” said Hajime.

Tooru licked his lips and did as he was told. They stood together, a little distant, in Hajime’s kitchen.

“Is this...,” Tooru began, “Is this it? Is this...,” he trailed off, and stared hard at the fridge, at the postcard of Tobio’s parents when they’d gone to Vienna ages ago, at the takeaway menus and the vouchers and lost receipts.

Hajime shrugged.

“What did you think it would be like?” Hajime asked. Tooru shifted, and Hajime was certain he would try and leave. His chest grew tight, and it was exceedingly difficult to breathe.

Tooru titled his head.

“I— dunno,” Tooru said, “I thought maybe I’d have to do something crazy, y’know, to prove that I lo—” He stopped himself.

Hajime wasn’t breathing.

“What did you say?” He hushed.

Tooru bit his lip.

“I said,” He repeated slowly, carefully, “I thought that I would have to do something crazy to prove that I love you.”

Hajime swallowed.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said after a while, “It’s not— it’s not supposed to be like that. It’s just— I like being with you, and I like seeing you in my kitchen, and watching dumb ocean documentaries with you, and studying with you, and sleeping with you and knowing you’ll be there in the morning. I don’t— I don’t care about finishing each other’s sentences or you laying down your life for me. I just...,” he inhaled a shaky breath, and prayed his voice would stop quavering and shaking, “I just want to be with you, and I want to make you happy.”

Tooru didn’t move, or even blink.

“Okay,” he smiled, slowly, and then all at once, “Yeah. That was—” he laughed, breathlessly, “That’s really fucking sappy, Hajime.” Tooru sang the three syllables of his name the name way as he always did, though in a quiet, hushed tone, as though it were a precious secret.

“Yeah,” Hajime grinned, and stepped closer to him, “It is.”

Tooru reached out and grabbed his hand. Their fingers slid together. It was a perfect fit, and no longer impossible. Hajime thought that in this moment, the only impossible thing was that Tooru choose to be here. He could be anywhere else in the world, but he wanted to be _here_ , in Hajime’s shitty kitchen, in the early morning, holding his sweaty hand.

“I can’t really refuse that request now, can I?” he said, and stared up into Hajime’s eyes, “You even wrote me a love letter.”

Hajime laughed.

“I did,” Hajime said, and then he kissed him, long and sweet. Tooru was warm, and his fingers were gentle as they wrapped around Hajime’s neck and trailed along the expanse of his shoulders.

“Hey, Hajime,” Tooru said, later, when they were flush against each other, lying down in Hajime’s bed, “I love you. I love you more than words, and I love words a lot.”

Hajime looked at him, down into his shining eyes, and it was silent for moment before he eventually said, “You look like an alien.”

Tooru smiled, a little lopsidedly.

“How long are you gonna tell me that?” He asked.

“As long as you’ll let me.”

Hajime wrapped his arms a little tighter around Tooru’s shoulders, heart racing at the sound of Tooru’s laugh, and Tooru said, “Forever, then.”

 

_Tooru—_

_You’re the only person I’d allow to be shrunken down to a tiny microscopic size submersible machine and swim around inside me—_

_You’re too good for me— you’re too good for anyone—_

_I love you—_

_I love you more than words—_

_I love you—_

_Sincerely, Hajime._

 

**Author's Note:**

> i diddly darn did it. ur welcome for the lack of angst and the wonderful pairings implied here
> 
> a playlist for the music tooru listens to can be found here: http://8tracks.com/reminscees/yikes-he-s-a-thunderstorm
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> disclaimer: akaashi keiji is not a giraffe.


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